I wear a dead

smile. Heartache cracks

the cavern where once my flesh pulsed.

I had a heart:

rose red, flourishing

but you crushed it underfoot.

I had hopes too.

Hopes I nursed like milk-white babes

on tiny, hollow promises, -

your promises,-

until they ruptured, oozing

love like lanced boils.

I cling to hate with stale

claws smeared in bitter lace:

the remains of a fine

lady, your lady.