As she drips down into her fluorescent mess,
She acquires these thoughts she's always addressed.
Full of love, hate, and distress,
Ninety to nothing,
she bleeds out her chest,
Wiping off the carnage from her hurtful gown,
The sailine trickling into her paralyzed frown,
Shes looked up too much to be this far down,
The powder on the brim of her hand,
Left her in dispear to regret her unsettling hidden hand.
What's up her sleeve,
What's down her gown,
The scars of today floating around.
Her bones so brittle,
Petite to the touch,
Crumble in her body,
And back into her crutch.
She takes the sand brittling away,
Engulfs it in her belittling tray.
Her nails are dug into the mildewed floor,
Hardening into the stained pain,
To sustain and embroider into this hardwood groove,
She's an fein for love and a harp for sloon,
A foreign word seeps to her room.
Spinning around spurting words across the walls,
The dead words she's spoken begin to echo down the halls,
A dark passenger aboard this drip,
In a gown with revenge in her pick,
She slides the mirror into her deathly grip.
Cutting into her callused hands,
She inhales the pain into her nasal stands,
So apprehend and pretend it's all in a dream,
Because nothing is ever what it used to seem.
Uproar into a standing ovation,
The death of herself is her dismayed creation,
In this bitter distraught heart is her ****** salvation,
Dampened into her picklines calbration,
The fifty round shot of morphines delayed sin,
Unto her face and into her impermeable grin.