by Zanna, age 12

Thoughts, frenzied, no longer neatly typed.
A spark of light, and the paper, it burns.
But still do the words remain,
a part of the soul.

Her life, blurred, like sodden ink.
Dripping, running, twisting the meaning.
What might have said white, may now say black, or red.
For all the laws, the rules, have been reversed.

And still runs the ink, flowing freely,
it mixes with her blood, consuming her soul, until it is a part of her.
As black as night, as blue as the sky, 'tis any and all the colors.
For the ink is her blood, and with blood, color has no say.

Blood - the ink became the blood.
The ink consumed her soul.
Somehow, yet in every possible way, she killed herself with the written word.
And she was reborn.
And still was the ink her blood.