power writing

She sits alone. In her dark room. The only trace of light coming from a small hole in her blinds. Its raining. Thick, loud drops of rain. They harmonize with the rythm of her sobbs. She can feel the warm sticky tears streak her face. They fall, mixing with the warm sticky blood falling from her arms. Blood and tears. Somehow theyve alwayz made such a lovly combination. For just a brief moment she looks up. Her eyes catching the small beam of light coming in from the outside world. It seems to focus on one object and one object only. His picture. Slightly hidden behind the picture of her two best friends its not particualrly noticable. But it catches her glance. His smiling face, her painsaken eyes. Both captured on the same piece of paper. Its amazing how much a picture can tell. She lifts herself from the ground. Makes her way over to the table. Taking the picture in hand, she spys her arms. They never seemed that bad before. The scars were just her little reminders of life. They let her know she was still here. But now. They stood out. Bold and purple. Screaming for justice. He never liked when she hurt herself. He was always encouraging her to find a better way. Too bad he couldnt have taken his own advice. The night he took his life, wondering if she went through his mind before he did it. Or was she just gone. Did she not matter any more. Theres no way to know now. Hes left her, and shes alone here now, to rot in his shadows.