Crimson Tears

She sits alone in a dark corner of her candle-lit room.
Her glossy eyes, those glimmer and reflect the candle's light, on the verge of tears.
Her rosy lips whisper a cry.
Her cry unheard, drowned out by the music blaring from the stereo.

She grips onto a small, sharp and shiny object,
And guides it toward her wrist.
She presses the object down onto her skin,
Creating a wound upon her flesh.
Yet she sheds no tears.

Ignoring the sharp pain spreading through her arm,
She presses the blade harder against her slender wrist.
The cut is deep and does not cease to bleed.
The blood drips down from her wrist to her hands to the floor, staining the carpet.

She lifts herself up and walks barefoot across her room.
She places herself on her bed and lies down on her back.
She lies there in bed, with her arms and legs spread out,
The blade still gripped in the palm of her ghostly pale hands.
Her hand hangs limp off the edge of her twin-sized bed as she lays there staring up at the ceiling.

She feels her head slowly beginning to feel light.
Flashes of past memories play in her head as if it were a movie..
Memories of friends she never had,
Memories of the love her parents never gave,
Those memories she could not bear to reminisce.

She slowly closes her weary eyes those feel so heavy.
Her grip on the blade, which is now tainted with her crimson blood, loosens.
It silently lands on the soft carpeted-floor beside her bed,
And she drifts off into a never-ending slumber.