He loved her more than he ever had.
More than morning coffee, or the Sun at midday, or the first inhale of a new pack of cigarettes.
She couldn't help but hate him.
Couldn't stop from spiking her words with poison,
Laying him down on a bed laced with daggers,
Hiding snakes in his closet, and scorpions in his shoes.

They were the perfect couple,
And oh how he loved her!
And the pancakes she made him,
Of shards of glass,
Her own blood spilled into the batter
And her new perfume of Carbon Monoxide,
She pulled him in close,
"Breathe deeply dear, deeply"
And the way he was never quite sure
his car brakes would still be functional in the morning.

She made "Wanted" posters with his face,
"Dead" they read, neglecting "or alive."
He picked out the tiny blue pills from his muesli,
The circular ones from his sandwich,
Larger ovals squished between a slice of cheese and it's *******,
and he smiled at the notion
that she'd been thinking of him
when she put them there.

She'd set fire to the bed in which he slept,
And leave the gas oven turned on, door wide open.
Put him on a diet,
How long can one last without food?
Without water?
Without air?

Infatuated with each other,
And vain attempts at love and death.
They were perfect.
And she knew,
in all her sadness,
that with the ending of his life,
Hers was sure to follow.