She picked the color crimson red,
She painted on her canvas.
Out poured her feelings, out they bled,
As she tried to leave us.

She wrote the story on her arms,
On her legs she drew the pictures.
For her, the story meant no harm,
Illustrations set before her.

Confusing swirls and angry slashes,
Her life was to be told.
For with her nothing matches,
And her complaints are getting old.

But she complained with creativity,
Complained within herself.
She told her story proudly,
But only to herself.

No one else needs to know,
To know the pain she's felt.
The story is for her to read.
It's for her and no one else.

One picture for the put downs,
Another accusing lies.
One more for feeling tied and bound,
The last for tears she's cried.

If only she could do it,
The best picture of them all.
If she could just get through it,
She would take the fall.

The fall that would last a lifetime,
With no second glance she'd look.
With one last sentence written,
The ending of her book.




 
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