This poem is not written in the traditional way. It tells a story with the feel of poetry. The meaning flows with the texture of the content.
Watching the blood spill to the floor left her in a trance. Her euphoria from before had now hit its climax in a menage a trois of pain, emotion, and acceptance. The pain, ironically, was not caused by the blade but rather by the emotions. A cold feeling of death came with acceptance. Acceptance was death and death was her release. Release from the pain, the emotional pain. In this last desperate cry for help, fate had finally reached the heightened result of years of torment. Solitary in this world to move through days of repetitive motion. Expecting nothing more or less of life than sheer torture. Even in the comfort of her room, in the depths of her soul, she still heard their voices taunting her. The names, the notes, the rumors. Each one cut away at her being like the razor did to her wrist. Glancing now at the deep slashes and the bloody puddle on the floor she didn't see death, or hate, or pain. She only saw her masterpiece of what she had become. Her masterpiece of what they have made her.
