There was a young girl sitting alone,
casually sipping her tea, such a pretty scene,
a razor on her thigh, waiting for a smooth victim,
a bottle of pills on the counter, waiting to be emptied,
a gun on the bed, waiting for sweet release.

Should she give in, which poison should she pick?
Let the pretty tablets fall on her tongue,
have her blood splatter the walls, the ceiling, the floors,
or let her die piece by piece, slice by slice on her wrist?

They tell her she’s beautiful, but it’s all for naught,
she believes they’re lies, all of it, lies,
blinded by the darkness of her mind’s illness.
They tell her they care, but it matters not,
she knows it’s all lies, false information,
deafened by the screaming of her mind’s demons.

They tell her she can talk to them, but she cannot,
her cries don’t escape, her struggles never heard,
silenced by the stitches of her mind’s distrust and paranoia.