Black tears do leave the darkest stains on the sleeves of her sweaters and the pillowcases she rests her burning mind on.
"I'll be right back," her dad shouts as the door closes behind him.
Motionless she lay until without thought, she'll sit up.
And she'll fold all her clothes, and she'll make her bed.
And she'll dust off her dressers and straighten the painting hanging on the wall.
That way, they can see a room as perfect as she tried to appear on the outside.
Then she'll go in her father's room before he returns home and she'll grab the gun and sit in front of her mirror.
And after reflecting on life and things like love, she'll think the very thought that pulls the trigger: she couldn't save you, and now you won't save her.
And she'll taint the white walls with the crimson sadness she locked inside her head.

-k.d