Red water is what she called it,
the liquid that came from her wrists.
It smelled like purple candy,
she’d tell the friend she missed.
Everyday for a year she’d scrape,
to relieve the pain of a lost friend,
A friend she lost when she was 8,
this feeling she couldn’t comprehend.
The little girl sat alone in her drawing room,
playing with her array of toys,
hoping to smell her friend’s perfume,
and re-live lost joys.
So lonely was the young child,
cold and so alone,
“Why couldn’t Jamie go back with her mommy?
Why couldn’t she go home?â€
Pictures of the lost friend dressed the entire room,
finger painted every day,
it helped the pain to be consumed.
Yet the girl was still alone,
alone in her small world.
The only thing that brought her happiness,
was when the pain was unfurled.
She lay under her bed,
door locked tight.
Pillow on her head,
she clinched the small knife.
A tear dribbled from the young ones eye,
as she slowly cut away,
she began to cry.
She cried not from the sharpness,
or the cold;
she cried from the loss of her friend,
the friend who she wanted to hold.
and the red warer flows
for the friend she wants to holdand the red warer flows
for the friend she wants to hold
