She lifted her brush and brought it onto a part of Her paper
Letting the red paint fall over
Until nobody could save her
She Slashed into oblivion
Letting all her troubles spill over.
Until she was proud of her artwork
And nobody could now hurt her.
She carved happily onto the canvas
With all the knowledge she had
And ignored the pain
And the unearthly feelings of doubt.
She was free from the earth
And all that had troubled her
For the paper was her wrist
And the brush was a sharp razor
But now she could look and say that it was all in her head
For her mind had poisoned her heart
And now she was dripping in red
Her madness over took her
And when she looked at the spirals
She thought they looked pretty
Cut into a part that was vital
Now she can cry and say she was wrong
For the ruin on her wrist marked the death of her heart.
