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The ink from my pen
is the blood that I shall not spill
from a lacerated heart that bleeds
affected by your malicious uttering.
The poisons in my veins
are but anger and hurt.
Not the strychnine
and cyanide I crave,
after you dealt such a lonely cold
prophesy for the one who lived
only for you.
My eyes are blinded with hot, salty tears
and not with the blanket
of death that I yearn for,
after your dismissal of my affections.
Still, I live; Despite, and beside myself.
You, being you, know not my hurt.
Only that you have hurt somebody
-and you, care not!