Her wrists are stained,
With the scars she put there.
Her bath is painted,
With her ruby red blood.
Her thighs are singed,
With the ash of her tobacco.
Her heart aches for you,
And her soul is crying.
The shattered bits
Of her once beautiful heart
Are scattered across the floor
In the shape of Zaleplon.
Her broken soul,
Its sitting in the toilet
With the taste of rum.
The smell of vomit
Still on her tongue.
She cries as she grabs that blade
Tears mixing with
Blood pouring out of her chest
Hitting the floor
Pooling under her.
How does someone get to that point? Where you cant even feel the blade in your flesh, your whole body is numb and you just want to die, how does that happen?
