She is an enigma.
Written not by ink,
But carved in skin.
Each evening she fades by a cigarette.
With her, you will burn;
You will bleed.
Immersed by the smoke of her being,
You are in a room of mirrors.
Behind them she hides,
Only a reflection of her will you see.
She is an apparition.
Handing you a glass of elixir,
You consume her.
Soon the smoke fades away,
And the mirrors begin to shatter.
You are alone with her barren self.
And so you run.
Because it is not her who intoxicated you,
But the image she painted for you.
So she is left in shadow and dust,
As her heart is left to rot.