She knows
she is wrong.
She knows
all these thoughts are
killing herself.
She's stabbing
her own heart
with her own words.
She's doing it everyday.
She sees
her blood,
she touches it,
plays with it,
drinks it.
Yet keeps on.
There is no stopping her.
She's grown to love
her torture.
Like a flower
needs sunshine,
she needs
her twisted thoughts.
She'll keep the blood
flowing
till she's dry,
then one bright day
she'll wither away.
Her once beautiful life
brittle
and being swept away
by a gentle wind.
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