by Nick Gisburne
She thinks she is too broken to exist
She thinks there is no sunlight in the sky
She thinks this wine-soaked, morbid, mental mist
Has cheated her pathetic plans to die
She thinks she ruined all she ever built
She thinks that life is ludicrous and long
She thinks there is no refuge from the guilt
Of knowing what she does is always wrong
She thinks that all the good times were a tease
She thinks she will not visit them again
She thinks she knows a way that she can seize
Her spirit from the grip of angry men
She thinks his death will take her pain away
And so she waits, and plans her perfect day
