She stares 

out the window pane

with the flowers in her cold hands. 

Slowly the petals drop

and with them 

her face disappears down into the dark. 

 

He poisoned her.

It was too late now

for the speeches and clipboards and cameras.

He had poisoned her

with his hands and his words and his eyes and his dark.

 

Like a coal mine,

he blackened her hands

day in and day out

and soon enough she was not the same. 

He poisoned her 

with his love.

 

Her hands went first.

Blackened and cold,

her palms were not soft 

like they were 

when she was mine. 

 

Her hair was second.

Longer and longer,

the sweet strands turned 

sour and straw. 

 

Her face, her eyes, and her lips

came soon after. 

Her whole body was lost

slowly melting away 

into a new 

and darkened form. 

 

He poisoned her 

with dark, mysterious

exciting love. 

I poisoned her,

I thought,

long ago. 

 

I poisoned her sweet

supple and spoiled.

I poisoned her with love

but all she wants,

all she ever wanted,

was a little hate.