Bruised, battered and broken,
Lying and choking
In the bed that you left.
Pained, pensive and pleading,
Your motives misleading
In your pretty, red dress.
A drink for a fool…or a knife for a knave
She sat cross-legged and held out the blade
The shallow indents on the jugular vein
Spouting blood and Rimbaud to ease out the pain
She's here then she's gone
Like he words of a song,
Half-forgotten
Remembered,
Disenchanted
Dismembered
My suicide girl
Dressed and unblessed
Those little red spots
On your pretty red dress.
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