Bloodstains on the bedspread -
Demon-thoughts filled her head.
Razor falls to the floor,
Shadows fall across the door.
Drops of pain, dully bright,
Shine through the breathing night.
Angels wept as they stood by;
People whispered, wond'ring - why?
She's not dead, but dead is she -
An echo of all she should be.
The razor flies back to her palm,
The lines she draws her soothing balm.
Soul-pain released in crimson flood -
A cutter weeps her tears in blood.