Urges

Tired of dealing
with all of the pain
She gives into the urges
that drive her insane

She drags the blade
Down her wrist
And pushes deeper
She won't be missed

Her head is spinning
Blood falling to the floor
She almost cannot hear
the knock at her door

Her body crumbles
beneath her weary feet
No one could've predicted
the end she'd meet

Now here we are,
on this plot of land.
This girl has died,
by her own hand.

A name etched,
in cold, hard stone.
A girl who felt so empty,
she felt so alone.