She thinks she looks prettiest
when she cries,
And she thinks she loves you most
When you keep telling her goodbye.
There's a veil across
the wet face of her tonight,
Grieving for the loss of you
or anyone or anything.
Sorrow becomes her.
Her thin boned fingers
Braid her dark and heavy hair
She weeps when you touch her
For the love that isn't there
She turns her face away
To bare her long serpent spine
As you mourn for desire
That you left long behind.
Sorrow Becomes Her.
You want her most
When she's brittle in your bastard hands
Begging to stay
Even if you don't fuck her
When she's still on the bed
And you can't stand the thought
When you hate the way she looks
And you can't wait to tell her.
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