She closes her eyes
and sighs so deep
just as she begins
to drift off to sleep

The blade is warm in her hand
Almost much to hot
But better than the gun
that won't need to be shot

She leans back against the tile
that's so cool on her check
she struggles so much
but can't seem to speak

She is so prepared to leave,
Her letters are done, her story they told,
For her story will be known
When she's dead and cold
 
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