She pointed a gun
beholding
promising
bullets
filled with
flowery dismemberment
at her mirror.
Her pale
lips
dripping
with honey,
sighing
I
dont
want
to
be
lonely
a n y m o r e.
And as the
dyingdeadgirl
looked
at her
thin
amorphic reflection
of
mindless deception.
A shaky
hand
pulled the trigger.
A trembling tear
wished to go back
to the
boulevard
of
explicit happiness.
A reflection
had fallen
to the
bullets
dictation.
Her illusions
of a
lovely world
almostinhergrasp.
As now
the tiny
dyingdeadgirl
trapped in
shattered
glass,
no longer
on the
bloodstained battleground.
No longer in
shards of agony.
A perception
of perfection
g o n e.
Where was I that night?
