Still

She was born in Hell,

Heard her cry from the empty well.

Silence from her cries,

Shadowed by thousands of lies.

She wept, she loves, she dies.

Her chances were dim,

Still, she loved him.

He was her only one,

Yet, he loved her, none.

He abused, lied and injected her pain,

His hands shameless, tainted by a death stain.

Saddened by shame, she realized it was just a game.

She fell, he caught.

He played, he tossed.

He lied, she liked, she pretended.

He played, got bored and abandoned.

His love was too rough,

Enough was enough.

Thus, she said, ‘This is it I’ll take this knife,

To stab his heart and claim his life.’

And so she did, and ate his heart

Then left his body in a cart.

Still, she loved him.