She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor,
A brush in one hand and a blade in the other.

She ran the brush through the dull brown,
Dishwater hair that framed her thin face.
Her eyes were sunken in from a recent loss of appetite
(Recent as in the past twenty-four months)
And her cheek bones protruded from her skin
Like the fist of an unborn fetus reaching out.

She fingered the blade in her other hand,
Memorizing each corner and edge,
Pressing it against the pad of her fingertips
And feeling the skin give.

She put down the brush (but not the blade)
And stretched out her legs on the hardwood
Studying her translucent skin and
The waterways of veins that ran beneath
And the concave curves of her knobby knees.

She traced the faint lines
On her paper thin thighs
Made from dull blades
From previous days.

Her failed attempts numbered
More lines than cracks in the
Floorboards, but not this time.
Not anymore.

She lifted the razor to her wrist
And whispered a silent prayer
Between shaking lips and
Closed her eyes and
Pulled back her hand.

She waited.
And waited.
She opened her eyes.
She cautiously looked down
To see a **** running
Vertically down her arm.
But nothing was pouring out
As it should have been.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

The blade hit the floor as she bolted out of her room,
And down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

Her mother was sitting at the table
With a cold cup of coffee sitting sadly beside her,
But it wasn't her mother,
But the shell of the mother she once knew.
Her eyes were bloodshot and her hands were bony
And her nose was red and her fingers were swollen.
And sitting in a high-chair beside her,
Was a child with wide-eyes and
Shrilling laughter.

The child seemed to sense her presence
For it looked into her eyes,
And it gave her goosebumps.

She ran to her mother and
Waved her hands in front of her
But her mother didn't seem to register
Her daughter before her.

"Mom! Mom? Can you hear me?"
But she didn't make a sound.

She noticed a picture on the refrigerator
So she slowly approached it.
It was a 5 x 7 of her sophomore year,
Six months before her disease appeared.
Her face was full and her hair was long,
Her eyes were bright and her smile was strong.
She could hardly recognize herself, anymore.

She noticed another picture beneath,
A newspaper clipping dated September thirteenth
The first day she ever played
"Trace the Vein"
With her blade.

And right beside the headline titled
"Young Teen Commits Suicide"
Was the picture of her full face
From sophomore year.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

She felt a throbbing in the back of her head
Like a hand nudging her brain,
Or a distant, forgotten memory,
Trying to resurface again.
But she shoved it back in.

She ran back to her mother,
Again waving her hands.
"Mom! Can you hear me? I'm sorry,
I never meant for this to happen."
But her mother was quiet
And the baby just stared.

She turned back to the staircase
But her knees started to shake
And she fell to the ground,
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
Like streaks of fire,
They started to burn.

And she screamed
And she screamed
But she didn't make a sound.

She lifted her hand,
To wipe the tears from her eyes,
But her hand was breaking,
And cracking and dying.

She watched her fingers
And then her skin
And then her veins
And then her bones
Break like brittle and
Fall to the ground in a
Mound of dirt and ash.

Her hair drifted down
Like dead leaves in the fall
And her rib cage cracked like
A crumbling wall
And her body caved in
And she wilted away
Because she was already dead
And buried in her earthen grave.

I.
The heavens were an infinite expanse of mourning veils,
Untainted by a moon;
Or possibly even by the stars.
The air was frosty,
And hard-hearted,
Gnawing at my flesh.
But yet I simply had to proceed.
I was feeling trapped and helpless,
But yet I saw certainly no other possibility.
I realized I had to pass The Black Bridge,
To seek the blessed springs,
That possess miraculous powers to alleviate
Just about all afflictions, torments and woes -
Which drown human conscience and faith,
Further and further,
Into an abyss,
Deeper and deeper,
Where they are seized by devils.
I had to pass through hell,
To get to heaven.

II.
The Black Bridge was somewhere no soul ever wanders,
Somewhere that has been lost,
Somewhere that has been silenced and suppressed,
Victimised by the murderous evil.
Will the path I have chosen,
Devour me completely and make me lifeless once again?
**** my grandmother,
My only hope in this chaotic world?
Why should I have faith in the cursed tongue,
Of those who have never crossed,
This saintly white yet black bridge?
Maybe, just maybe..
The Black Bridge could possibly lend a hand in my quest,
By keeping me safe and out of harm's way,
Banishing all who embraced sin and depravity.

III.
The wind howled in despair,
And the oceans crashed violently upon the shore,
As a storm began to brew.
I could hear every footstep of mine,
Every anxious beat of my heart,
Every breath I took.
No demons had crossed my path.
A ray of hope flickers in the sky.
I am not the Shade.
I walk on the path of enlightenment.
The tale of The Black Bridge was a lie.
Never have I seen such ignorance or contempt
For somewhere so innocent and kind.
Never shall I make this mistake again.

IV.
The Black Bridge was heaven in disguise of hell -
A disguise blackened by the sin of lies,
And unveiled by the illumination of goodwill.
All that seems dark, dire and deathly,
May not be so bitter after all.
I had to pass through heaven,
To get to heaven.