She'd said she didn't, that she hadn't,
And they wanted to believe her.
Yet the stains remained even after she washed,
And the marks on her arms were telling.
The angle was right for what happened,
Wrong for her story.
The spots proved disastrous to it, too.
And the angle of origin, the velocity when splattered—
Those didn't match up, either.
She'd said she behaved.
Sure, some friends had cut—
Not her.
The morgue says otherwise.
©2007
Not entirely sure what inspired this one.
YOU ARE READING
Eyes Wide Shut: a collection of poetry
PoetryI often forget this, but I aced my poetry-writing class in college. I actually took the class with the hope it would teach me how to help my brother with his own poetry, as well as how to understand poetry better. The teacher said I have a very good...
