I don't want anyone to worry about me, the girl in this poem isn't necessarily me. Well, obviously, as I am here writing this. But I mean, I'm probably not going to do this. It was just thoughts.
Bloodied corpse cries scarlet tears,
From wounds left from eleven years.
Bloodied corpse has nothing left
The choice was hers, it was life or death.
The porcelain skin looks ghostly now,
Face streaked with tears she wouldn't allow.
Skin scraped, soul bruised, a perfect mask,
She's finally completed her final task.
Shirt clings to skin, barely covering bones,
Around her wrists the scarring roams.
Soul tainted with evil, flesh crawling with sin,
She replaced the pain so it's all on her skin.
No more will the walls hear her cry in the night,
All gone from her is the sorrow and fright.
The thing killing her she has finally killed
With two cuts and a rope, gasoline and 12 pills.
A bloodied corpse is all there is left,
When it came to the choice, she knew it was death.
The shell is still there but the girl is long gone,
What they never knew was that she was a corpse all along.