Her world trembles yet
she breathes deeper
swallowing the poison in gulps
trying to forgive the bitterness.

her throat is an exhaust pipe,
Polluted.
Exhaled potential
life in death in respiration

He's a musician
Dressed as the Fates
he's teasing her cord of life
playing the Moonlight Sonata
on the strings he yanked out of her.

This isn't sickness,
but it will soon come
This is not her death
but the thought lingers.













She is then, not now
still locked in the death grip of anger and need
kissing the beast that took her soul

she is then, not now
cause now,
now
she smokes to die.

the cloud is filled with
all the hate that he gave her
sweetly placed in a black felt box
and given on one knee
say yes, he said, say I do
welcome my good qualities
and put up with the bad
Spend nights filled with tears,
so that I may be granted the privilege
of seeing a plastic smile on your lips