She slits her wrists with emeralds as she screams into the sky,
"Poor me, my lover is a tree. What a poor girl am I!"
Flaunting about her innocence, she wastes not and tries his.
Saying, "We're just playing. He doesn't REALLY love my vices."
While kissing lips like alcohol, she curls into his skin.
Breaking his heart and all the while conforming to no sin.
He holds his tongue tighter; Professing an ode to love, romance.
Self-pity'd as she stabs his back, she sings a song and dance.

- Tarinn Lee.




Penned by my hand on the 25th of Lanosian, in the year 213 MA.