The Dotted Line
She cut the little dashes.
They went all the way around her wrist.
She hid them well.
She wrapped them up.
She kept infection out.
She smiled.
She showed her mask.
She flaunted her act.
People loved her smile.
It showed all the time.
Late at night she would sit by her bed.
"Soon," she would whisper to her wrist.
She planned and toiled.
She wanted it to be grand.
She cut oh so carefully.
She cut dotted lines on their wrists.
She let their bodies hang.
They felt no pain.
They felt nothing at all.
The police found them like so.
But she left a hair.
The police found her.
She lay on the floor.
The dotted line had been cut.
She wrote a note in her skin.
"In case of arrest,
Cut the dotted line.
In case of depression,
Cut the dotted line.
Death will follow."