Underneath her pinkish olive skin
Lies a cold, cold soul.
Disheveled she, she called herself.
Her heart, breaking in agony.
Her soul, wilting like a forgotton rose.
Disheveled she, she called herself.
She slept in her frigid nudity, atop the almost warm heater
Hoping to warm her soul.
Drowning in her tears, she wept, she slept.
Disheveled she, she called herself.
No one wants to hold her, no one wants to run their fingers through her artificial black hair.
No one wants her.
With her heart breaking, she died inside a bit.
Disheveled she, she called herself.
Her tears formed a puddle on the foyer floor
Soaking her hair and the atmosphere,
Reading the words he said.
"I love you, but I'm not in love with you," said he.
Disheveled she, she called herself.
"You're too good for him," one says.
"He'll regret it like I did," said another.
"Better will come along," they exclaimed.
She just cried harder, drenching her soul.
Drenching her every notion of being.
Disheveled she, she called herself.
Drowning alone in her own self worth, or lack there of.
Drowning alone in her own self pity.
Drowning alone in her own self hatred.
Disheveled she, she called herself.

03/03/2003

Author's Note: "The hardest part of breaking up is getting back your stuff." - 2ge+her. Yes, if your stuff constitutes as every good feeling you've ever encountered..

Posted on 03/04/2003
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