She took the paintbrush, and started painting a beautiful picture.
Proud of what she has accomplished on her own.
She looked at the beauty of the picture, hoping she could do it again.
She snapped out of it, blood dripping on the floor.
The razor as her paintbrush, and her fragile skin as the canvas.
She looks at what she has done, not proud.
Tears streaming down her face, looking at her cuts disappointed.
This was not a beautiful picture, this was the ugly truth.
She threw the razor, angry at what it has done to her.
Her life slipping away into the darkness..
She looks out the window and sees the shining stars.
She asks herself then..
Will I be able to fight much longer?
