That old lady Hair white Like snow Eyes green Like grass Wears all black Long flowing black skirts Black collated skirts with ruffles Black nail polish Black lipstick All black Contrast against her deathly pale skin Like burnt ashes Sickly Unnerving High and sharp cheekbones Hollow Like she doesn’t eat enough Her frame thin Skinny Lank Like she starves Maybe she does

Her house Filled with burgundy roses Deep red Like wine Like the wine she drinks every night Deep red wine Sometimes she asks others to drink In silence Others Mostly She drinks alone In her room Without a word

She’s mad Or maybe a bit sad Both could be true All at once She makes outrageous demands Others despise her But Maybe She despises herself more The things she’s done Blood drips Onto the furniture Maybe that’s why there are no longer white chairs Or couches Or even bedding To hide it To hide what she does To herself

She always frowns With disdain Or maybe not Her eyes are lidded Like she’s looking down On others perhaps Or because she can’t bare to meet others eyes Maybe it’s regret Maybe something else Who knows In the end Maybe even she doesn’t

That little scarf The only color Red Like blood Like wine Like roses Contrasts against her skin And the clothing she wears Every day She wears it every day Even in her sleep Makes you wonder Why

January 12th She leaves Her house Every year She leaves To the graveyard And cries And cries And cries Burgundy roses in hand Then on the grave She dabs her eyes With a little black handkerchief Then leaves And drinks again All alone In her room

She doesn’t speak To anyone No friends No family Only self loathing Complete isolation Only maids And butlers Whom she refuses to interact All except one A young butler He looks kind of like That man in the image she always carries Who is that No one knows Maybe a friend Maybe family Maybe a lover Who knows She does She speaks to the image Ever so often When she thinks no one is watching

That little red scarf On her wrist Covers up scars From what From herself She hates herself It’s evident The little red scarf Is it naturally red Or Is it from something else

August 3rd She sings happy birthday But not for herself For who Her birthday is long gone She refuses to celebrate August 3rd She visits the grave every year And leaves a box A little box Wrapped in red The next day She goes back And when she sees it’s gone She seems fufilled Doesn’t she realize It’s a theif Dead in the night Maybe But still She holds out hope

She refuses to go near the ocean Despite living on the beach It scares her Like she sees a ghost Maybe she does How could anyone know What she is going through And what is haunting her

Sometimes She wakes up And reaches out screaming She says That sometimes She feels like she’s drowning Then mutters about How she should have Like she feels guilty Maybe Maybe she does Maybe that’s why she won’t go to the ocean

The old lady is senile She’s losing her ability to speak To remember But sometimes She sobs silently Into her pillow During the night

Some days She can’t speak Her eyes gloss over Glassy Unalert Other times She looks into the sky Like she’s haunted by something Like she’s scared Sometimes She prays Before bed And asks for death

She did it She took too many pain killers On purpose Then laid down And went to sleep And never woke up Next to her bed Was a note That said To give all of her money To children’s hospitals For her son Who she could not save She decided That with her fortune She would save Other peoples children So they could be happy

At her funeral There was someone Her sister Who told a speech About her Said That the ladies child Her son Died On the beach Trying to save a little girl From a shark attack And both of them died The lady She tried to stop him From going out and helping the girl But he wouldn’t listen And the lady Feels forever guilty For not saving her son

All that was left Was his hand Where he wore a little white scarf That his dad gave him Before he died The little white scarf Became red Stained with his blood Red was his favorite color And it was the old lady’s She never forgave herself For what happened But no matter what I hope her soul rests in peace And is reunited with her son