Silver Trigger

Thick red linen runs down her arm
Veins beating rapidly, a shrill alarm
Lost in the world of suicide;
A complete unknown
Brutally uncensored for the world to know

The razor blade sits close on the table,
Its sharp edge is chaotic with shards of stain
She smiles at the thought for the very last time,
"The world is finally going to see my pain."

She runs the blade again deeply into her skin,
The sensation starts to burn,
A sudden flow of heavy pumping,
A feeling she only once yearned.

The pain begins to make her quiver,
Her sight begins to unease,
She runs to the bathroom,
Her arm begins to seethe.

Maybe that silver gun in the box under her bed
Or the pills near the bathroom door,
Both were there without question,
For when she needed something more.

Something to drop the pressure,
The ultimate strain,
That shining trigger in that purple box;
On where she wrote her name.

She picked up the flawless gun and put it to her head,
She had no last words this time,
She just wanted to be dead.

She pulled the trigger as the bullet elevated through her head,
Blood splattered across the room,
An artist would have never painted this red.

The police surrounded the area,
Hoping for a murder case,
But the cracks were much bigger,
For she had taken a greater escape.

They searched through the once rosy bedroom,
Through the blood-spattered walls,
They hoped that some sort of evidence
Would lead to such a horrible role.

They looked under her pillow,
Where she once rested her head,
And found a note that said:

I hope you're happy,
Now that I'm dead,
You said I didn't belong here,
So I guess this is where it ends.