The rouge in your bathroom turns blue every morning,
Drowning in your tears and dripping in mourning.
Mirrors on mirrors, broken glass on your floor.
Switch off the lights and count down to four.
The pale fog shoots itself against the windows,
Reflecting sorrowful faces of your widows.
You know you cannot hold on for much longer,
And you are wishing for another life to launder.
It will not be mine, no, I am not yours to ruin,
I am not the storm you can keep from brewing.
The storms I will unleash will serve as a promise,
And my followers will turn every city honest.
The rouge in your bathroom turns white every night,
Knowing I am out there, ready to take a bite.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 