I had to write this poem for my English class. I don't usually do poetry so I was pretty proud of this--I got an A+ on it.

The "poor little rich girl," "daddy's little princess,"
all grown up at seventeen,
sits alone in her cold, perfect-looking basement,
of her perfect-looking house,
adrenaline, fear, and peacefulness coursing through her veins.
The chilling sensation of the cold, metal razor
against the pale, scarred flesh of her left wrist
hits her like no other.
Tonight she cuts deeper than ever before,
deeper than yesterday,
deeper than last week.
Her friends tried to help her,
make her see
that there are other ways to deal with her pain,
but she refused to listen.
"Oh God," she pleads,
"Just let it end tonight,
please just let it be done."
She feels the lightheadedness
wash over her
as her deep crimson-colored blood goes drip, drip onto the
crisp, clean, creme-colored cleaning cloth,
just like a leaky faucet into a metal sink.
She senses her eyes becoming heavy,
and she can feel them closing, slowly.
"Thank you God," she whispers, "Thank you."
Then everything goes dark.