There was a girl whose laugh was loved

her name I do not know.

She said she painted pictures

that she didn’t want to show

She said she made her pictures

where nobody else could see.

She thought that they were rather crude,

Not refined, nice or neat.

She said she kept the portraits from

being seen, in plain sight.

She smiled and said that they were under

the perfect disguise.

She knew her sketches brought her joy

when she was down and done

She felt they helped divert her mind

from all things sad and glum

She said with every painting she was

closer to being free.

Believed her art would open up

an easier way to leave.

It didn’t take long to understand:

when we’d realised what she meant,

it was too late to apologise,

too late to repent.

Her silent cries and pleas for help,

her pain, terror and fears

She hid her feelings in her soul.

Her heart cried unshed tears.

That’s what her paintings were all for:

her horrible release.

Her only way to let pain go

was take it in with ease.

For no one knew, except me. But

by then it was too late.

By then the wound had cut too deep,

by then she’d sealed her fate.

A small detail that changes all;

This story’s darkest twist:

her paintbrush was a razor blade,

her canvas was her wrist.