Her

I wrote this poem about a friend that had a problem with cutting.

she sits alone at night, suffering the pains once over of her past. she recounted them over and over in her head. she couldent figure out a reason to live. her life meant nothing to her. the slits in her arm got deeper and deeper. and all at once they burst open into a red paste of darkness. her blanket crusty with dried blood, and sweat.  she heard a faint cry. but this cry was no mere shriek of terror, but of happiness, contentment, and bliss. a light shown on her eyes. it blinded her. until it dulled away. her blanket, clean. her arms healed. her void, filled. broken no more.