To Write Love

(poems go here) She has experienced many tragedies; haunted by mere thoughts of her childhood, the persistent feeling of grief. She has felt he awful glares of supposed friends, long nights and short happiness, the attempted hanging. Her arms remember the sharp blades of knives, 265 scars raised that tell the story of depression. Mere minutes after I meet her tears streak down her face, labyrinth of pain, so called friends giving her different ideas. The sun is rising. She goes downstairs and weeps. She grabs the largest knife and runs to the bathroom. She engraves in her skin “HELP ME” across her arm. The lost soul of a lost child, forever bound.