Portrayal of a silent murder
She was there, sitting on the edge of the kitchen table. A bottle of Vodka left open to her side, crystal clear drops falling down her cheeks. Her knuckles so white, from holding tight onto the edge of sanity.
She was alone but not since long. Her brown hair, disheveled, fell on her shoulders, hiding her hazel eyes from the sunlight peeking through the curtains. A wilted flower by the windowsill, unable to grasp the light, rendered dry by all the tears.
You could count all of the hours she spent awake, staring blankly at a white screen, on the circles around her eyes. You could have seen she was upset from a mile away, by the way her head hung on her neck. But you didn't see any of that because you were too busy looking at your own scratches. And when you raised your eyes to look she was invisible, unable be found.
She wore her heart on her sleeves, because she was alone and nobody could see her.
The reflection into the glass stares back at her – silent – before she drowns her pitiful soul into the liquid fire. She is alone, for too long she's been.
Her hair is falling apart, breaking at the ends and turning grey. Her nails have become black from the smoke and her eyes are no longer able to see. Violent quietness permeates the air she breathes in like poison. Deadly mist enters her lungs as she erases herself from this world, slowly, at her own leisurely pace.
You can tell she has been upset by looking at the way her thinning figure withers into the haze. You can smell the brunt flesh and the dried blood. You can hear her wrecked body's call for help, but you do not speak. Not a word is uttered in this hall of ruin.
Because she is just a young girl sitting alone on a kitchen table and nobody sees her.
Just a young girl sitting on the kitchen table, swinging her legs back and forth, but she meant the world to me. And every fresh cut on her skin was a tear on my heart, but now it's my nails drawing blood. Now that it is too late.