It is the color of her vision,
When you come home late one night,
Covered in someone else’s perfume.
It is the color of her nails,
As she grips the door frame,
Watching you get ready for another,
Late night trip to the bar with your pals,
It is the color of the apple,
That is placed on your head,
You put your trust in her as she pulls back the bow,
Let us hope the arrow hits its target.
It is the color of her hands,
As she reaches into their chest,
And rips out their hearts,
With a sick smile in place.
It is the color of her dress,
When you are swirling her around the dance floor,
As your eyes scan the crowd for your mistress,
You have to wonder where she got the dye,
Because her dress was white last night.