Melancholy with a side of Misery (#Wattys2016)

3.Painting

Bright red drops,
of blood of course.
Seeping into the cold
white snow.
What a remorse.
She died in the winter.
When the snow had only fallen,
the other night.
She died on the inside
not on the outside.
To you she's still alive.
And it's only the wrists that
are painting the snow red.
But I see her dead.
With no life in her eyes.
She hates the cold
and all the snow.
She started liking all things red
a little too early,
Perhaps she was eight.
Either way
It was already too late.
She knew she's screwed
and that a few years later
her only hobby would be
painting all things
red.