Her life is a melody,
an etude of melancholy
Her wrist is a violin,
where marks of practice make its toll
Her bow is a blade
sliding it deep and hard
until the notes,
colored with crimson red
oozes out

Tonight, she made up her mind
She will end the etude
that she composed all her life

The restroom is her stage,
her shadow is her audience
She will play her violin
until the last note drops