Roses are crimson,

violets are black.

Stories are pointless,

in a world full of slack.

Why did you strike the match?

I was wondering where they had gone.

But they had been in none other than,

your blood-stained,

soft palms.

I'll step away,

I'll get away.

And you'll run away.

But what's left to say?

Because you never loved me, anyway.