Death roots her innards and creates toture.
I would call a doctor, but nothing could ever cure such horror.
It made her change; almost two faced.
She would turn her back, and consider it to be "ok."
She never said she was afraid because if she died, her spirit will perpetuate my mind in ways that could never be explained.
I would soon open my eyes in complete dismay from how much she had drifted away into her own grave.
Dead and gone, 'cause not a single angel in heaven succoured her a peaceful fate.
I have come to discern, she is not to blame.
So I will sleep until she wakes.
Wrist is to canvas, as blood is to paint.
I'll show myself how much I love to hate by
painting one last picture living with this incredulous daint.
I would sympathize with her, but it's too late.
So my blood drips until I can feel her pain, or until I can forget her name.
