Who could love a "it"?

It drips red and blue, until angels scream.
It drips blue and purple, until the demons claim it in their iron grasp.
It drips purple and brown, until the wounds dry.
A silver blade that shows a grin in it's reflection.
Blood that covers this black rose bud.
Unmarked graves of screaming souls.
No man shall ever set eyes on her again.
She driped the blood from her soul as she cut her life string.
Making her skin turn blue and purple.
Making the ground turn red and brown.
" what a great useless fool" are what the voices screamed to her.
The world black as a pit.
The blade making mockery of her pain by showing a demon in it's reflection.
While heavens grace giving her bitter rejection.
Bleak, darkness that made joy and glee of her pleading cries for help.
It was her tenth birthday that day.
Forsaken from the holy lord, and given away to death.
Death dressing up as her sweet mother.
Oh poor sweet little Heather doomed by her mother.
Or was it her best friend?
leading her to her bitter end.
The demons dancing by the fire.
Hanging her soul on the wire.
Given away for no reason.
Making her season black instead of green.
But no one cares for sweet little Heather.
For her mother called her "it".
And who can love an " it"?