She listened to the words.
She sliced to the beat.
The lyrics flowing from her delicate lips.
Just as the blood flowed from her delicate wrists.
One cut turned to five, turned to ten.
Ten into an endless number of lines across her skin.
She cried out to god to save her poor soul.
As the sink filled with blood and her body went cold.
She used to draw on her skin.
With razors and blades, while tears dripped down her chin.
Now she's gone.
The depression won.
Another tragic end.
