[Painting A Picture With Blood.]

Frail fingers [reach]
    For the temperature control.
          Soon the temperature will be in the
Negatives.                                        (you mean where we want it?)
[The rusted metal squeaks.]
    A cry of anorexia rings through
The [becoming claustrophobic] shower stall
As dried blood is rinsed away from
            Her /bo|n|es\.
The water feels so good;
  It numbs away the thought-too-much
      Thoughts;
And she watches them swirl down the drain.
[Bloodstained.]

Those oh-so-frail fingers cling
To the railing.
    [As if all the danger is going to
Make her fall.]
  [The wooden steps creak.]
The [deadened] dreams and
The [existing] nightmares seem to
Fall gracefully together, forcing her to become
                  Paranoid.
Every corner shows a new stalker and
Her conscience seems to be
    Sewing every faded scar
                              [Right back on her wrist.]
The blood spots on her pillow reappear
    Like nobody ever
Knew about them.

And the mirror holds something scarier.
Eyes with tiny pupils            [but without the drugs]
And a certain scent of
        Psycho
Rolling from her eyes
Like tears.
      Voices are talking from behind the
Mirror; but nobody is there. How... odd.
[Mommy. Mommy! Look at the crazy girl!]
    She despises those scars hidden
In her irises, it seems to
    Crush
Her hope of [survival.]
And the lessons she once knew so well,
Are morphing into new plans of
        Destructive nature.
Those pitch black pupils are
  Burning holes right into the face of
An insanely [beautiful] monster.

Her sunken eyes observe the razor,
    Hold it with a loving touch.
The [breakable] fingers took it out
From the crack in the wall,
        Where she hid the love letters
She was too scared to give and
        Where she hid the suicide notes
That nobody has read. yet.
[Her screams echo down the hall.]
The crusted blood is scratched off with
    The fresh.
And it drifts Down.
                    Down..
                    Down...
To where the paint peels on the floor.
Each tentative question fades
Slowly away.
    And the movement is routine;
(Back and forth, just one more time)
The things that went wrong and things
That went right disappear

As she paints a picture with blood.
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♥
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(I don't think I will live tonight)