people don't truly see a masterpiece until the artist is dead and maybe that's why no one could see her beauty until she was in a coffin
she cried and scratched at the edges of the wooden casing but they could never hear her screams even when she was alive
she was writhing in sadness and terror while he was trying to figure out which brand of gun was the most reliable to shoot and **** an animal, or maybe even a person
the funeral march played and the congregation sang prayers they had never blessed her with when she used to walk through their cemetery trying to find her soul
everyone teared up and were secretly happy because it was not them in the ground and the entire back row whispered about how she ruined herself
she wasted her pretty face and perfect cheekbones with vile injections of poisonous boys
death. it was the only thing she could control, and he knew that. he was inspired by her to end his own existence. it was the only constant.