Broken shards of glass
on the white tile floor,
the air filled with smells of gas,
blood-prints on the wooden door.

Scattered matches lay unlit,
a tired girl,
a quivering lip,
the knife still plunged into her hip.

He comes back with a poisonous smile
and more gasoline to paint the tile.
She tilts her beaten head
and begins to weep,
he hisses to her, “go to sleep”.

His fingers brush the matches,
and twitch with open scratches,
he leans in to her cheek,
his black eyes dare her to speak;
she is weak.

His lips touch her bleeding face,
his hands on her dress of lace,
love she fakes,
the knife she takes,
to his heart that breaks.

Down he falls onto yellow pools,
she grabs the matches; the Devil’s tools,
sets him on fire and all is well,
she leaves him there to burn in Hell.