She smiles – but, life having burned the bridge of her nose,
it no longer has a means to travel from her lips to her eyes.
“I hate him,” she says,
in the same tone she used to order her decaf latte,
taking a sip
and trying not to spill
on the perfectly white tablecloth.
Here lies the doubly dead;
O, how the mighty are fallen!
drowned for good measure,
a liturgy to terror.
Shaved from the Tree of Life
with bested blade,
your clutch at green
becomes a sickly parody,
a humorless and desperate joke.
Denial let you cling to life-support
while the summer sun poured down,
but here you lie,
destined to wear
the bottom of a boot.