Suicide Swims

She paints a pretty picture,
But her story has a twist. 
Her paint brush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist. 

She never knows when she wakes up,
If all will be the same. 
Or if she'll be in her dark place,
Again to feel the pain.  

She opens up the hurt alone;
She opens up her veins. 
And nobody will ever know,
That she can't break the chains. 

Because when anybody asks,
She claims that she's okay. 
It's an empty truth at best,
It's what she's suppose to say. 

Edgar Allan Poe once wrote,
About a dream within a dream. 
But she can't wake from her nightmare;
She can't even scream. 

So tonight she'll lay her head,
For the final time. 
The pills she took will stop her heart;
The pills will stop her mind. 

And as she's growing heavy,
As she's growing dim. 
She smiles real for the first time. 
And into dreams she swims.