Tears. Sliding down her face, silently hitting her phone screen as she types to her best friend "I'm okay".
Blood. Dripping from her sliced up wrists onto the snow, white carpet.
She's scared. She's alone. She's lost.
Lost in her thoughts which got her here in the first place.
Craving the pain from the knife blade so she can focus on something else other than her fears.
She's sitting there, wishing, she, was
At least if she was dead people could cry about her and share memories where she claimed to be happy.
She no longer cares.
She, Is, Done,