From the Suicidal Writer:
But even with a new relationship, friends said Korshunova kept her emotions bottled up. Acquaintances said they had no clue about the black thoughts behind the beautiful smile.

Something tells me no one, or very few, cared to ask. She was writing about the surface problems online, so it was hardly a secret. Maybe it's just my preconceptions, but from my interactions with the modeling world (low-level, nothing near the supermodel world), the industry is filled with vain, shallow people who don't really cotton depression, alienation and depth in a model's soul.

Even when reading the article, I noticed she wasn't treated as a person as much as a set of physical features, and, unless one is shallow, that can drive an otherwise moderately stable person over the edge after putting up with it for years. Considering where she is from, I can see how she felt she probably had few other options. She's dead now, and will soon be a rotten corpse, so what will they say once the exterior beauty fades?

The first paragraph:
The distraught boyfriend of supermodel Ruslana Korshunova said Sunday he had no idea why the green-eyed stunner took her own life in a desperate plunge from her luxury Manhattan apartment.

The third paragraph:
Carrying a bouquet of white roses and lilies, Kaminsky wept outside Korshunova's Water St. apartment as he recalled how he met the Kazakh beauty through a friend in March.

The fourth paragraph:
He wooed the 20-year-old model - known for her flowing locks and feline looks - with the words, "I'm in shock over you. You are so beautiful."

The eighth paragraph:
Korshunova seemed to have everything - a jet-set life, a new boyfriend and gorgeous looks that landed her the covers of top fashion magazines.

I should mention that the excerpts are taken from the Daily News.

I have no idea who she was, but it's sad.

Edna St. Vincent Millay [excerpted]

"Ah, but I go not as I came,—no trace
Is mine to bear away of that old grace
I brought! I have been heated in thy fires,
Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires,
Thy mark is on me! I am not the same
Nor ever more shall be, as when I came.
Ashes am I of all that once I seemed.
In me all's sunk that leapt, and all that dreamed
Is wakeful for alarm,—oh, shame to thee,
For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me,
Who laugh no more nor lift my throat to sing
Ah, Life, I would have been a pleasant thing
To have about the house when I was grown
If thou hadst left my little joys alone!
I asked of thee no favor save this one:
That thou wouldst leave me playing in the sun!
And this thou didst deny, calling my name
Insistently, until I rose and came.
I saw the sun no more.—It were not well
So long on these unpleasant thoughts to dwell,
Need I arise to-morrow and renew
Again my hated tasks, but I am through
With all things save my thoughts and this one night,
So that in truth I seem already quite
Free,and remote from thee,—I feel no haste
And no reluctance to depart; I taste
Merely, with thoughtful mien, an unknown draught,
That in a little while I shall have quaffed."
…

Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone
I wandered through the house. My own, my own,
My own to touch, my own to taste and smell,
All I had lacked so long and loved so well!
None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song,
Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long.

I know not when the wonder came to me
Of what my father's business might be,
And whither fared and on what errands bent
The tall and gracious messengers he sent.
Yet one day with no song from dawn till night
Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight.
And the next day I called; and on the third
Asked them if I might go,—but no one heard.
Then, sick with longing, I arose at last
And went unto my father,—in that vast
Chamber wherein he for so many years
Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres.
"Father," I said, "Father, I cannot play
The harp that thou didst give me, and all day
I sit in idleness, while to and fro
About me thy serene, grave servants go;
And I am weary of my lonely ease.
Better a perilous journey overseas
Away from thee, than this, the life I lead,
To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed
That grows to naught,—I love thee more than they
Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way.
Father, I beg of thee a little task
To dignify my days,—'tis all I ask
Forever, but forever, this denied,
I perish."
"Child," my father's voice replied,
"All things thy fancy hath desired of me
Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee
Within my house a spacious chamber, where
Are delicate things to handle and to wear,
And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song?
My minstrels shall attend thee all day long.
Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand
Open as fields to thee on every hand.
And all thy days this word shall hold the same:
No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name.
But as for tasks—" he smiled, and shook his head;
"Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by," he said.

I love Edna St. Vincent Millay! Seriously. A LOT.

Maria - I loved this when I found it (these stanzas in particular) and I think it perfectly expresses what I feel when I read about a suicide: (i) the absolute pain and despair that person must have felt to take their own life, "Need I arise to-morrow and renew Again my hated tasks," and (ii) the absolute shame that someone wasted, what I think, is our only shot, "But as for tasks—” he smiled, and shook his head; “Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by.”"

Lastly, it also speaks to her life as a model, “Ah, but I go not as I came,—no traceIs mine to bear away of that old grace I brought! I have been heated in thy fires, Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires, Thy mark is on me! I am not the same.

I was surprised, actually, by how few poems related to suicide (I read about 60 before finding this one), bespoke the themes expressed here. It goes to show how at once common and individual our view of the world is.