The End of Loss

She cries for the seconds she lost, She cries over the memories created by scars. Is it her life that costs most? Is it the box of razors that's far? Or is it her heart's single failure? Why does she wait? The feelings she thought conquered and long gone. Her foot touches the floor, cold, her path is straight, The emotions in her head play her the pawn, The heart carries its heavy freight. The razor is in her hand, A blissful escape, that is the plan, A thought played too grand... Rivulets of blood dripping from her wrists. Her path cut straight through her deeply shallowed heart. Her slashed through heart, tattooed behind her clenched fist. The blood drips, the razor falls to the ground, its played its part.