She writes me every night,
She presses my words upon her lips,
She knows me wrong from right,
She awaits eight pounds in her hips,
Someday I promise she will walk,
Down in her black veil dress,
Someway I swear she will talk,
With a smile that promises impress,
Down the aisle in her black dress,
She awaits the minister’s consent,
She waits to place him to impress,
The moon born in a crescent,
Never completed like his heart,
He takes Christ beyond the ash,
Always he feels himself rip apart,
He swears he is as annoying as a rash,
He takes the barrel,
Holds the trigger,
Points to his temple,
Pulling together,
Blood everywhere,
He pulled so hard,
She had to stare,
So she took her wrists with a shard.