She.

She sits alone in her room.
The lights down low,
music screaming at her from the stereo.
She wonders,
"Is it okay to do this?"
Yes.
All signs point to yes.
The pressure she was under,
it was immense.
Crushing her heavy heart
like a defenceless snowflake underfoot.

No other way out,
she wanted to make it disappear.
Emotional pain,
she wanted to drown it all out
in a pool of her lonely tears.
Blade in her hand she sighs.
"Is it okay to do this?"
S l o w l y
she pulls the blade across her wrist.
And again.
And again.
Dead drops of crimson
spiralling to the floor.
And again.
She cries.

Acid tears fusing
with perfectly formed trickles of blood.
A potent mixture that spells out
H U R T.
"Is it okay to do this?"
Second-guessing was never her thing.
She repeats the carvings across her wrist,
a mantra revealing such emptiness.
Such beauty created from such pain.
A masterpiece of death
staining her delicate skin.
Fear becomes her.
She ceases the torture
that's inventing a dementia in her mind.
Stop.

Breathing incompletely,
sighing deeply,
she surrenders to the suffering.
"Is it okay to do this?"
Meaningless words
from a once innocent child,
she has reached a point of no return.