Behind the large black curtain a very professional woman approached her.
"Oh, wow. What's your name again?"
"Uh, Samara Amanti." The woman held out her hand and Samara cautiously took it.
"Hi, I'm Amanda Jones, I'm a collector of young poets; I turn them into famous adult poets."
"Uh, wow, you like my stuff?" Mrs. Jones's eyes grew wide.
"LIKE!? I absolutely loved it!"
"Th. . .thank you." She whispered shyly. The whole time her eyes stayed glued to her black leather boots.
"Well, here's my card, contact me by Sunday, we'll do business." She took the card, but as Mrs. Jones was walking away she spoke up.
"Ma'am. I can't, I have spoken word all week. Sorry."
"Oh, really, are you coming back here?"
"Well I'll be tomorrow then." She walked out and Samara gathered her bags.
The next day Samara showed up again. She looked herself up and down in the full body mirror. She was wearing a long black skirt and a long sleeved blood red t-shirt. She had on thick black eyeliner and blood red mascara. Her eye shadow went from light brown to crimson red. Her foundation was pale white. She walked out on stage.
"And back to woo us some more is Samara Amanti, with her poem Candles Burned."
"Candles Burned. Yellow candles burned on my dresser drawer. I closed and locked my bedroom door. I turned my radio way up loud, so my mom wouldn't hear my shouts. Orange candles burned on the sink. My sanity was on the brink. Blood dripped from my silvery knife, as I contemplated my shitty life. Blue candles burned atop my TV. As I screamed I knew Mom couldn't hear me. I wrapped my tourniquet, but then I thought, why use this bandage that I bought? Red candles burned on a wooden stage. My family mourned, yet my best friend was filled with rage. She screamed out 'Why? Why did you have to die?' Grey candles burned upon my cold harsh grave. It turns out my life was given up that day. But as long, as you never forget me or mine, different colored candles will burn for all time." She caught her breath and looked at the crowd. A standing ovation. She smiled inside. She felt like screeching for joy. Then she saw Mrs. Jones sitting with a tablet and looking up at her every five seconds.
"Thank you." She whispered. She ran into the bathroom and locked the door. The lights flickered on and off. They really needed renovation at this place. She looked in the mirror over the sink. The lights were dim and flickering still. She put her hands on the rim of the sink and lowered her head. She turned the faucet on, filled her hands with water, and splashed her face with it. Then she slowly rolled her sleeve up to her shoulder, revealing a scar-covered arm. She pulled a small razor blade from her pocket, and found an empty space on her upper arm. She watched blood drip down her arm and hit the sink. The water and blood mixed making it look like tears of blood.
"Tears of blood, huh, nice name for a poem." She said, then winced. She brought a paper towel to her cut and wiped away the blood, then pulled her sleeve down. "I guess I'll never stop doing this." She said to herself, splashed her face once more, washed the blood down the sink and left.