Frozen tears in the bitter cold

Hot crimson blood flowing through her veins

She knew what she was about to do

Intentions not but emotions true

Running a finger across the blade

Drawing blood like a sinner’s fate

Her weakness only but a fear to die

And leaving everything behind

Sitting behind a tree

Numb and frozen on the frost bitten grass

Pressing the knife against her small wrist

A line of thin blood from a calligrapher’s pen

Deciding this alone was not enough

Chilling metal stinging her bluing skin

Against her neck and slicing cold

And now, this story is told.