By your words, I am slain.
And I feel the blood,
as it pours out of me,
boiling as you paint the walls.
I feel this,
and I am satisfied.
Maybe not a crime of passion,
but it is a crime nonetheless.
And it assures me
that you are just as capable
of dying as I am.
Aug 5, 2010
Aug 5, 2010 at 9:02 PM UTC
By your words, I am slain.
And I feel the blood,
as it pours out of me,
boiling as you paint the walls.
I feel this,
and I am satisfied.
Maybe not a crime of passion,
but it is a crime nonetheless.
And it assures me
that you are just as capable
of dying as I am.
© Kayleigh Redwine August 6th, 2010
Request permission to use this poem