She

She played the piano.
Played it so beautifully,
And loved it.
Everyone couldn't help but stare,
And feel the music.
She told a story through her fingers.
But it was not her story,
Her story was filled with tears when no one was staring.
Her story was filled with cuts into her being,
Because she didn't know who she was.
Silently she suffered,
While everyone just wanted a piece of her music.
But her notes were breaking,
Breaking,
Breaking so slowly,
But effective none the less.
She couldn't hear the notes anymore.
She was always in outer space or underwater.
Her music was the ground she couldn't stand on anymore.
But she played the piano.

She smelled like cigarettes.
She smelled like coffee.
She smelled bitter and sweet,
And was a mess but neat.
Broken on the inside,
But pretty for everyone to see.
Every morning less sleep.
Falling harder than falling deep.
Running forever,
Running to better,
Herself.
From what?
I do not know.
Only she will ever know.
I don't mean her mind.
I mean her fingers.
The ones she put in a casket long ago.
Her soul. 
Buried deep beneath everything she is now.
Buried beneath her smell.