She sat there,
holding a knife in her hand.
She glanced down at it,
holding it firmly.

She had her legs over the table,
the right leg over the other.
On the chair she sat,
knife in her hand.

She stared at the sharp end,
inhaling the end of the cigarette.
Smoke blew out of the other end,
her lungs screaming in pain.

Her heart was already shattered,
yet she never mentioned.
Her soul already dead in heaven,
and yet she's living in hell.

She played with the knife like a toy,
wishing to end up choking on it like a child would.
Instead she rubbed the sharp edges on her skin,
just as blood pours out and instantly drying up due to the toxic air of smoke.

An innocent smile showed on her face,
and behind it told a story.
A story that can never be told,
especially now that it was all a lie.

The toxic air and bacteria entered through her cuts,
and there her inside was screaming in pain.
But her outside was moaning in pleasure,
for her skin has itched to feel the toxic blood exit out her body.

She saw me standing there, staring.

and asked "Who knew pain could be so pleasurable?"

With one last breath,
her body shut down.
Her heart gave up,
and so did she.