Her eyes are daggers,
a force not to be reckin' with.
The redness of rage colors her iris,
anger protrudes from her stare.
If looks could kill,
he'd have already been dead.
The assailant of her mutilated heart,
the victim of her fatal glare.
The tears of fire roll down her face,
leaving an ashen trail of flesh on her cheeks.
She's not shedding a tear for him,
but for the person she almost was,
the person she would have become,
had she not given him her soul.