She died last night
on the bathroom floor,
and tore the picture
from it's pretty hook.
It bled out its paints
over her head,
mixing the blues and greens
with her crimson,
crimson tears.
The tile was cold underneath her,
but it was okay,
'cause the air above her
was frigid with expectation.
I almost want to think she cried,
but I know she didn't.
I watched.
And I didn't do nothing 'cause
it was all so damn
perfect.
Picture perfect.
