Contrast

What did she think?

This poor girl was laying here.

Was her life that bad?

Loosing her family was bad, but she still had herself.

Did she feel abandoned?

As long as there is life there is hope.

Was hope not good enough?

She was here sitting against the wall.

Did she want attention or to be noticed?

She was wearing her favorite shirt.

Did she think she had lost her future?

She had her legs curled under her.

Is this what she intended?

The blood is here on the floor.

Did she mean to hurt herself?

She said one thing, “Beautiful.”

I reached down, touched the blood, and saw through her eyes.

She whispered to me:

“Sometimes I scare myself. I can imagine in my mind a scene that would be grotesquely beautiful. I imagine the tender pale flesh of my forearm. I see the glint of a razor sharp blade. The picture plays through my mind as if I am watching it from a distance, disconnected. Pale light illuminates the scene. The blade makes a slow gentle stroke across the dance floor, painting the beautiful contrast of crimson against milky white. The color of life and the color of death mingle together on the pallet.”

But how can death be beautiful if you have to be alive to see beauty?