Eyes blurry
Stomach ripped open
Her blood on the floor
Pools of red liquid that run from this damaged soul.

Oh how we wish to stitch up the wound, to let her live, free her from the hands of death.

But she has made this her end and we have made it a new beginning for sadness and guilt.

Was it our fault or the girl who took that kitchen knife, plunged it inside of her, and torn open her soft flesh.

Now her mother shall never smile.
Her father will never laugh.
Her brother will never sleep.
And everyone who ever loved her will never see her smiling face any longer.

But who's fault is it?
The broken girl
Or the ones who broke her?