She wakes up feeling as if someone drugged her,
With no intention of killing her,
Just want to make her suffer,
Her phone goes off, but she doesn't answer,
'Who really wants to talk to her', she thinks,
Her texts have gotten shorter and cryptic.
She forces herself to get out of bed,
But already she wants to be back in it,
Stumbling upstairs, dragging her feet,
She opens the fridge to find,
Cold pizza, morning delight,
She eats it slow, because she knows in 20 minutes,
She'll just throw it up anyway,
She doesn't really know why she does that to herself.
One more sick way,
She can harm herself without anyone knowing,
It only takes an hour before,
She gets to herself, and it's bedtime,
She's her biggest enemy,
She lies in bed and wonders, 'Why me? What have I done?'
'No', she thinks, 'What can I do?'
She thinks of all the tools at her disposal,
Pills, easy enough, but does she have enough?
40... 50, if you count her antidepressants.
Maybe she should take them...
Next up, razor blades, sharp enough,
What else? The gun, she grabs it from under her bed,
Slowly, like she's planning a mission,
She grabs the bullets and only puts one in,
It's all she needs anyway.
Grabbing her supplies, she sits on her bed,
She texts her love of life,
The typical, "I love you, but you're better off without me,"
She grabs the bottle of vodka on her nightstand,
Her phone rings, it's him,
She doesn't even look down,
Just lets 'Invisible' by Skylar Grey play in the background.
3 pills, chug... 5 pills, chug... 7 pills... chug,
"Screw it," she says,
As she shoves the rest of the pills in her mouth,
And slams the vodka down,
Trying not to throw it back up,
She lit herself a cigarette,
With one hand holding her lighter and in other the blades,
She finds the perfect spot on her arm,
Where her vein sticks out a little bit,
"Perfect." She's feeling tipsy,
And she starts to sway in her own little world.
One more hit of the cigarette,
And she takes one hit at the vein,
Blood flies out of her arm,
She screams at first,
And then lies down on her bed,
Forcing one final hit of the sour-tasting cigarette.
Her eyes close slowly,
Her breath getting weaker,
The pain in her arm getting more intense,
He calls and calls, over and over,
While she lies there... dead,
"Why do I feel so invisible?"
Is the last thing she heard,
And it is only 2 pm on a normal Friday,
So what is the gun for?
To show whoever found her,
There's another way out.