Poetry - untitled

Who would believe that a girl this small
Could destroy so much?
Who'd believe that every good thing she finds
Collapses at her touch?

It isn't what she means to do -
She wishes it weren't that way.
She's only ever wanted to help,
To make herself of some use,
But her efforts are more pointless every day.

She's caused more destruction
Than she cares to bear.
She's tired of dealing with failure
And sick of living in despair.

She's the source of the misery
And the reason for the loss.
The only way to do any good
Is to force herself to stop.
She knows she really should
Kill the monster that's the cause.

So if it's really what you want,
You can stick around
To watch her drive herself into the ground,
To see her tear herself apart
Starting at the arms and working toward the heart.