lightning flashes against the sky
and now the hour’s drawing nigh
she sits upon her porcelain throne
and thinks of things she can’t condone
to do this thing that’s held so wrong
midnight calls her with it’s gong
draw the water for a bath
add the bubbles without the math
a shiny object from it’s sheath
a single blade, not rows of teeth
second thoughts pound through her brain
but now she’s on a derailed train
into water’s silken glove
pinkness spreads to foam above
softest sigh parts from her lips
unto darkness she finally slips

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