The Witch's Disease

The Wails Through the Windows by Isadora Snow

I had once handed her my soul, with blood shot eyes and a child like eagerness to be loved
I thought that she handed me hers too, and the taste of hope felt so sweet
She made a swingset the most beautiful place on earth, along with everything else
There cannot be good without evil, and I had learned that quickly

Years have passed, filled with music and laughter, apparently they couldn't appease her
She was cold blooded like a lizard, but I thought I could warm her heart
Her hypnotic trance was broken without a second thought, though I would have gladly stayed
She desecrated the gift that I had given her, while I wrapped mine up safe and tight

Words encased in black and green, an infection swam through the folds of my brain
Abscesses filled with pus and sorrow, growing on whatever made me happy
A disease is what I have, at the moment there is no cure
The next new black death has been reserved for me, it has labeled me a failure

Speech has flead my mouth, integrity from my chest
The box has shattered under the pressure of my trembling grip
Although the screen is black, the text long gone
They still float through the back of my eyes, ghosts of her betrayal