She looked at her picture and felt empty;
She saw her face, and all those that she held dear,
As well as the people that she abhorred;
Gazing upon the glitz and glamour of her past,
Everything was a shadow that felt like nothing.

She remembered the parties and the drugs,
The music that pulsed through her and possessed her being,
The visceral aroma of the room -
The pungent smell of sweat and intoxication -
The feeling of nihilism that consumed her.

She tried to cast out the memories of
The one night stands she fell into with faceless souls;
With the unnamed entities that stole her;
The people that took advantage of a lost heart
That eddied about the darkness without a light.

She had no way to make her way through the chaos,
She couldn’t discern the good from the bad;
And who could blame her, for everyone she knew lied;
Everyone was playing a vicious game,
A game won by any means, with no rules or goals,
Where the victor’s gain ultimately meant nothing.

Her body is twisted and torn now;
She lived a life that drained her of divinity,
A life that’s a lesson to the young,
A warning that’s written in her pain and sorrow,
Whose words are etched upon her sad face;
A lesson that, even when she dies, will echo.

No longer is she framed in the picture,
But rather, she is the frame - itself - that binds them:
The spirit formed by their malicious deeds.