It was Monday dear
I remember
because that is the day when the leaves don’t listen
They pooled around our feet
like the violet tears you told me you cried
all night and every night
It bothered me
this I must admit is true
for all you could see (all you could ever see)
were the drops of distaste that applied to the capital “I”

It was Monday (or maybe was it Wednesday?)
When you glided back to us on your throne
And yes love, we could all see it was made of your sorrow
your high and mighty pain
Was it better than all of us?
That day you’d worn your very best shade of armor
It was the color of pomegranates
and it smelled like strawberry incense
The smoke curled around your eyes as you described to me
How you were to join the Others
and become a disoriented warrior harlot
Who could barley swing a sword

You stare at me, sickness in you eyes
I stare back at you, distaste in mine
We are bones to you, bones you have picked clean
We are books to you, books you have read
But you silly girl
You self-centered Lilith
To us
You are the hound of hell, you are the secret whispered in gossiping ears
My stupid little has-been
To us
You have become nothing
And love, no one is impressed anymore