My chest seems too tight to be true,
because all I seem to see is you,
so when he cries into your chest,
or when you smile my way,
I hope you know I held the gun
to the temple of my head
before today.
I hope they believe when they see the news,
that loving him killed you,
how death kissed your breast
and held your hands,
called you his lover
so you could kiss him back.
I pray you cry in the grave,
scratching at the lid of (y)our coffin,
and that you look over and see my eyes,
looking at you.
They're piercing, aren't they?