A warning: Some of the material in this poem is not for someone of a squeamish stomach.
She sits in her bedroom alone
Day after day, night after night
Longing for solace or comfort.
She is filled with sadness
For reasons unknown to anyone.
She hates herself for being so sad,
For being so vulnerable all the time,
For not being stronger after tragedy.
She glances at the clock again. 1:39 A.M.
She wonders if another sleepless night,
Of sadness mixed with deep anger,
Of endless hate of her own body and mind
Filling every single inch of herself,
Will greet her this particular night.
She gets up from her bed and walks across her room.
She has thoughts swimming around in her head,
Freely going in and out of her mind, overlapping each other,
Until they can't seem to form anything sensible.
She lets the thoughts in deeper to see if they could make any sense
And feels tears well up in her big blue eyes as she should have ignored them.
Her thoughts are unexplainable really; a few of them happy but most of them unbelievably miserable
For someone of the age of sixteen. But one thing stands out more than anything else:
She feels she's let her loved ones down deeply, and she feels worthless.
She clenches her eyes shut as she feels her emotions
Begin to spiral out of control, tears streaming down her face.
She's contained them too long, put on a happy face too many times.
She's felt sad, lost, and alone for too many years.
She quietly opens her bedroom door and peeks out silently,
And tiptoes down the long wooden hallway,
Feeling along the moldings along the wall for guidance,
Until she reaches the restroom door, feeling for the brass doorknob.
She quietly turns the doorknob,
Praying the faulty hinges will be silent,
And there, barely glimmering in the dim light,
Sits the razor she'd left sitting on the counter.
She picks it up and fingers it gently,
The coolness of the metal blades making her fingers tingle.
She carefully removes one of the blades and puts it to her wrist
And stops there for a moment, praying she'll stop shaking.
She presses down, wincing a little as she breaks the skin.
She sees a little blood trickling out yet feels no pain.
The thin blade slicing into the sensitive skin of her wrist
Feels almost welcoming, almost freeing.
She continues to cut deeper and deeper,
Drawing more and more of her deep red blood,
Feeling tears spilling down her cheeks,
Yet she can't and won't stop. Nor does she want to.
She eventually passes out from blood loss
And lays dying on the smooth tiled floor
As the pool of blood around her lifeless arm grows,
And her breathing begins to get more shallow.
Eventually her pain stops, a calm smile appears on her face,
The tears no longer spilling down her pale, smooth cheeks.
She is dead to this world before the sun comes up.
Her loved ones feel an unfathomable sadness.
But her pain is over forever.
She feels no sadness.
She feels a release
As her spirit is free,
And truly awakened
From the sadness
That had been tormenting her
For so many years.
**Disclaimer** The ending of this poem is NOT based on real events.
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