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Blood flowing to her fingertips,
tension in the air,
sitting on the distant street,
people pass by and stare.

They judge her,
yet they have no clue,
shes been through so much,
yet maybe they have too.

Blood pouring down her neck,
at a rapid rate and speed,
she calmly looks around,
a friend is what she needs.

Someone to help her,
to guide her to care,
someone who loves her,
that quality is rare.

She wants to be saved,
to get off board,
all the rest,
have just been frauds.

She looks at a puddle,
her reflection she sees,
a gun she thinks,
she gets up and flees.

She walks past the crowds,
the judgemental stares,
this is her only option,
for nobody cares.

She goes home,
and opens her drawer,
a gun she pulls out,
knowing exactly what for.

She retreats to the shed,
and closes the door,
and that was the last of her,
that anyone saw.