The third level of a staircase that rises to five.
Too weak to make it to the top,
Knife in one hand,
Empty pill-bottle in the other.

They find her
Colorless and cold
Upon the empty stairs
With weapons dropped and phone in hand,
Resting on a contact that was never called,
For her fingers were too frail.
Pallid skin chills their hearts.
A note begins “I love you all…”
“I’m sorry” carved into her thigh.
Crusty, red liquid spilled beneath her.
A face devoid of any emotion.

You’re too late.
A heart is steadily silent.
Lungs are stubbornly empty.
A body is willfully lifeless.