Here's a story about how she's gone:

Once she said she doesn't fit anymore
Again she said she had been trying for too long
Thought someone would understand her but there was none
So she run, run, run and found herself running alone
She's wondering about her friends and parents and all
Her thoughts started to fill her mind and making herself drown
Drowning her down, down, and down

Anger and rage started to consume
Making herself looks like a fool
Realising she's just a burden
For her friends, parents, and all

She started to run, run, run and found an empty room
Inside there's a desk, chair, knife, and writing tools
She then begin to sit down
And tried to remember all her misfortunes
All her problems and insecurities
She's never going to fit in this huge world with perfect people
That was what's on her mind

Her trembling hands began to write
She was feeling more free and light
After what she had done

Looking at her body from above
She smiles so bright
She had write what needs to be written
Only a straight line on her skin
Straight through her vein
With red ink, leaving stain everywhere
And that was what she write; her own death

And that's the story about how she had gone.