Ribbon

Her fingers around a cigarette,
These are the years she will never forget.
The times her father beat his fist upon her door.
The moments her own grave called for more.
She was confused, hurt, not knowing how to cope.
Her fingers smelling of the back of her throat.
Purging her frustration and pain,
Crying each night over weight gain.
The only reflection she knew was that of a razor.
The smile of the sharp metal always phased her.
The blood ran off of her leg, depression to please.
Like thick red hair, blowing in the breeze.
She's happy for a moment within the night,
Until she manifests her grasp around a knife.
Out of the gash streams rich red ribbon.
Her mind is absent, to her grave, she gives in.