---

Still carrying my unwanted name,
I walked in a small house
standing between clean and untidy.
I pushed a pastel blue door open,
and light shades of pink filled my eyes
when I set my eyes inside.
The information is,
but the view's not wide.

It's her room.

My shoes started walking for me;
my heels were clicking against
the sky-painted floor.
The room was pale, and it's an almost
that nothing more is bright.

Neither rich.

The room smelt of innocence
and ruined childhood.
The room smelt of soft words
and unrequited love.

And for the first time,
I saw something dark--
a ruled pitch-black paper.
The words in it looked like
it was a toddlers'.

The three last words of the letter
were "Sincerely, Little Fussbudget."
Since her handwriting was bad,
I was so sure she was
in desolate tears when she wrote it,

but I wasn't so sure for whom it was
'cause she didn't state the recipient.

She wrote in the letter
that she lost her heart
in the bright building
and that she asked someone
to share his heart with her
as she still couldn't find it.

But he didn't answer, I know.

I was saddened;
I immediately felt her pain
as I bitterly looked
at the three parallel lines
she drew under her name.

One's blue,
one's chartreuse,
and one's dark gray.
Only chartreuse was so visible
since it's the only bright line,
but I see all three
possibly the way she saw it.

I instantly knew...
she felt like she's on stage four
in people's eyes.
She wrote to her dreams every night,
and what's strange is we share dreams.
She always told her dreams
she doesn't want
to lose dedication to them...

"even if the walls of home
crumble into salt,

"even if lots of them point
their index fingers at you
when they don't even know
your name."

At that moment, I knew
almost everything about her,
everything about her name,
and everything about the letter.

But I had one question.
Who is she?

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