She's throwing nail polish at the wall again,
And I know that's why she only buys glass
But still
They don't explode like she thinks they should
Not the splashes of vibrant color.
Like the time when she was young
And she filled balloons with paint,
After school in that old greenhouse,
With that old man
Who told her she was special
And great enough to live for.
So when he died
The ruling unassisted suicide
She thought it was her fault,
because she told him to stop.
She wasn't special enough.
The adults told her it was just his time
She wasn't supposed to overhear
The whispers of "he'd be alive still..."
And the notion that
He was just too old
And given a choice they would like to go
On their own terms and time
Before their bodies took away the mind's power to decide.
She doesn't say
But I know that day ignited her pain.
Red slashes on her wrists
- Sharpie pen -
She says it makes a statement
I believed her then.
But now I'm not so sure
She's throwing nail polish at the wall again.
