The photo album

Looking through the family album
I see a lot a pictures.
Three of them are mine.

Looking through the album,
I see I am:
meaningless,
replacable,
hardly there at all,
my family does not love me.

Page after page
I see:
my parents,
my siblings,
my pets,
my relatives,
but none of me.

Sitting on the couch,
the old white floral couch,
tears fall down my cheeks,
splattering on a photo album,
falling into the background.

I fill the bath tub,
warm hot water
a razor kissing sweet release,
the water turns red,
I am no longer here
no longer a living dead girl.

Looking through a police file,
I see a lot of grusome pictures.
All three of them are mine.