Alone

She paints a beautiful picture but the picture has a twist. The paintbrush is a razor and the canvas is her wrist.

Alone; as her mother smokes pack after pack. With every knife that leaves her mothers lips. That's how she felt, alone.
Her parents were divorced and her father remarried a scurrilous woman. The young girl loved her father with all of what was left of her heart, he meant the world to her but she never showed it. She wouldn't want her father to be apart of her despair; she wanted him to be happy, even if it involved her not breathing. He was always miserable, she could tell by his eyes. Such sorrow. He could smile for days on end but she could see through his white curtain and spot his true emotions.
Her father never cried, he saw weakness in it. He smiles for others' convenience. All this she could tell by his eyes. Nobody ever looked into her eyes, nobody saw her true suffering. They only stared at her smile, heard her laugh, ignored her sobs, and disregarded her cries. Nobody truly listens for your weeps until you are silent. Selective hearing.
At school she was always an outcast, always glared at yet always ignored. A very counter intuitive pair indeed.
She didn't matter. She never mattered.
USELESS! WORTHLESS! PATHETIC!
Life to her was torture, no matter how hard it got for her, she could see the hope and the light seeping through the cracks of darkness. It was always dark and cold. Always dismal.
With every cut into her tan, rough skin, it never got better. She felt like she wasn't even alive anymore. That part of her died long ago. All the hope, optimism, and joy; gone.
The blood. All the blood did was make her mad.
"Why!? Blood shows I'm alive doesn't it?!" She always asked. Nobody answered.
She only cut to feel pain. If not she wouldn't feel alive. She felt like a pawn in the midst of a chess game. Not needed, not useful, unnecessary. That's all she was.
The young woman didn't know what to believe when it came to religion. The thought of an unseen force being the cause of her suffering an misery terrified her even more.
"If he existed, why am I like this? Why am I who I am? Why do I suffer?"
Still nobody answered. Nobody ever answered. Nobody listened. She was trapped in a box full of misery and despair and nobody could help her. Nobody cared.
Alone. The very word practically describe her whole being. How she was, how she had always existed, how she always felt. Alone. She pondered as the word entered her mind and the blood left her wrist.
Alone.
She dropped the blade and cried. Cried for what seemed like a lifetime with her head in her hands, and her knees at her chest. Opening her eyes and lowering her hands to notice nothing but darkness.
Darkness. The type you can feel, physically and mentally. It consumed her. Finally her thoughts, her emotions consumed her and she was engulfed into the nothingness that she was.

For nobody shed a tear on the day she was discovered. Scarred wrists and thighs, tears dried on her silken cheeks, with a rope dangling her above the puddle of sorrow that left her body the night before with the simple slit of a blade. For nobody cared. The never did. Her body told stories. Stories of sadness, stories of happiness. With scars, and bruises. Each one with its own memory. The first time she rode a bike, the first time she fell of a swing, she first time she saw a razor, and the first time it cut deep.
Free from problems, free from agony, free from sadness, she was. And she was happy. A smile remained on the little girl as she watched from above. Her corpse too had a similar smile. Now she was indeed, alone.