The picture

She paints a pretty picture

But this one with a twist,

The paint brush a razor and the canvas her wrist.

She paints a pretty picture

The color of bleeding flesh

Driven by the idea of a moment for her mind to rest.

While using her paintbrush

Her picture is complete

Her fighting soul has finally been beat.

The picture finally fades

The blood no longer racing

And her anxious feet no longer pacing.  

She painted a pretty picture

But this one with a twist

You see her pen was the razor and her paper the wrist.

Word after word, line after line

Bleeding out her life

Into simple and choppy rhyme.

A choice made easy

A poem or her life

To end the horrid flashbacks and or pull out the knife.