A steady stream of pain rolled down her cheeks
As I entered her dimly lit room,
On a night I will never forget.

The pain leaped from her face
And harshly landed on the floor,
Creating a salty lake beneath her.

I went to sit down,
And she quickly pulled away her weapon of choice
In a hypocritical effort to not hurt me.

The liquid meant to stay within
Bitterly rested on the edge,
And looked upon us in defeat.

She then pulled out her toolbox
In the shape of a shoebox
And carefully placed the tool next to her other instruments of self-destruction.

Tonight was a razorblade,
Yesterday was a box-cutter,
And I pray tomorrow will be nothing.

I started to speak but bit my tongue,
Because the right words are like lost love,
Barely out of reach, but rarely found.

She claimed it made the pain disappear.
But I knew better, because her face still remained hidden in her hands
And physical wounds don’t amount to mental ones.

She finally looked up and noticed my empathetic face,
As I gazed into her eyes
In wonder of what was going on behind them.

I gently placed her head on my shoulder,
Wiped her tears,
And promised her everything would be alright.


I knew she heard my words but didn’t understand them,
Because she refused to believe life was long,
And that happiness would eventually find her.


We sat silently as thoughts raced through our heads.
We had no reason to talk,
For we knew what the other was thinking.

I looked upon her arm at the once-****** slit,
That would forever remain engraved,
Right next to all the others.

I reminded her that when all appears to be lost it can only get better,
Because a tree that loses its leaves in the fall always grows more in the spring,
And winter is almost over.

A slim smile formed on her face
And realization soon followed.
She finally understood.

Despite each scar and each feeling of uselessness,
There would always be at least one person,
Who finds her beautiful.