She wrote a story.
A story that will show her past.
A story that will change her future.
A story sad and depressing.
A story about her self-loathing.
Her close ones knew about it.
They had tried to stop it.
But they couldn't as,
She was the author.
The lines became the words.
Her wrist was the page.
And the pen was a blade.
She could decide.
Whether,
To control the urge despite,
The feeling of wanting burn.
Or whether,
To continue a story,
That at the end will make her burn.
She decided.
Now or then,
This story had to end.
And so she did.
Instead of a blade she took a brush.
Instead of her wrist she painted the canvas.
Slowly and slowly,
She wrote a whole new story.
She did make mistakes.
And though she did break,
She never stopped.
Gone was the depressing aurora,
Replaced with happiness and colour.
Even though she was still emotionally drained.
She was sure she never wanted continue that sad story again.
