Your black stockings run to your thighs, like the black makeup smudged in your eyes. And your tired black soul sadly sighs, for I've swallowed you red, you are dead. This is your demise. You are mine, like the sky owns a dark horizon line scattered by planes blazing signs that read "red you are dead, all the flowers of your bed cannot siphon all the black that has pooled in your head. It has filled out your bones ineluctably fed by those dirty streets, that mutinous earth, whose selfish city said 'you are mine.'" You were mine.