Mrs. Dolores sat on the armchair in her balcony,
A cigarette burning in the ashtray,
A tattered Jane Austen on her lap,
Her pretty face made up,
Mascara smeared,
The bright red lipstick intact,
The same smug look,
With a tinge of sadness in her eyes.
Her beauty had faded away,
Not long after her innocence did,
But she loved herself for what she had done,
For whatever she had become.
And hated herself for killing what she could've been.
Mrs Dolores sat on the armchair in her balcony,
Blood dripping down her wrist,
The same proud look,
With a mist of betrayal in her eyes.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
Mrs. Dolores sat on the armchair in her balcony,
A cigarette burning in the ashtray,
A tattered Jane Austen on her lap,
Her pretty face made up,
Mascara smeared,
The bright red lipstick intact,
The same smug look,
With a tinge of sadness in her eyes.
Her beauty had faded away,
Not long after her innocence did,
But she loved herself for what she had done,
For whatever she had become.
And hated herself for killing what she could've been.
Mrs Dolores sat on the armchair in her balcony,
Blood dripping down her wrist,
The same proud look,
With a mist of betrayal in her eyes.
Request permission to use this poem