Her bug eyes glare at me

wanting to pierce my inner soul

Her fingers, cold and white

reach for my throat

wanting dark to close

in around me

Her scent, they say,

is of roses

and her eyes the color of rain

But all that faces me

now

is her hot, stinking breath

damp at my cheek

and her eyes,

O, her eyes

They are nothing short of

bitter ice

Her pupils are dark

and the irises

resemble nothing but the

bloody slits on her wrists

O, that bitter ice