I still remember the beauty of her,
A face so lovely, a love so pure.
Her caramel skin, kissed by golden light,
Was once the only thing that made my world feel right.
Her long black hair, intricately braided,
Fell down her back like a masterpiece created.
Her lips, so soft, so easy to desire,
Could turn a dying ember into a raging fire.
And that green dress, how it hugged her frame,
I still remember whispering her name.
She wore it the night I last held her near,
The night love turned into something to fear.
Now I see her standing at the foot of my bed,
With her head tilted sideways and her eyes nearly dead.
Her braids hang loosely, tangled and torn,
Her once-perfect features twisted and worn.
Her caramel skin has turned ashen and gray,
With darkened patches where the flesh decays.
Her lips, once inviting, are split at the seams,
And something crawls beneath them whenever she screams.
Her green dress hangs from her skeletal frame,
Stained with the remnants of what once remained.
Her fingers are crooked, her nails blackened with dirt,
And the sound of her breathing makes my stomach hurt.
I close my eyes, but she never departs,
Her rotten reflection appears in the glass.
I hear her braids dragging across the floor,
Then three slow knocks against my bedroom door.
I beg for forgiveness, I beg her to leave,
But she only smiles with a mouth full of grief.
She reaches toward me with fingers so thin,
Whispering softly, “Let me back in.”
I remember the arguments, the shouting, the cries,
The terror that lingered behind her beautiful eyes.
I remember her pleading, her trembling hands,
And the blood that soaked through the floor where she lay.
I told myself I had no other choice,
That I couldn’t bear to hear her voice.
I wrapped my hands around her throat that night,
And watched the woman I loved lose her fight.
I buried her where the old willow trees grow,
Far from the places that we used to know.
I washed my hands, I cleaned the floor,
And swore I’d never speak of her anymore.
But something about the darkness has changed.
The nights have grown longer, the shadows deranged.
For every time I close my eyes to sleep,
The woman I murdered comes crawling to me.
Her once-beautiful face is no longer her own,
Her jaw hangs crooked, her teeth are exposed.
Her braids drag behind her, soaked in the rain,
And her green dress bears the stains I cannot explain.
She doesn’t want love. She doesn’t want tears.
She wants me to remember the night I gave her my fears.
She doesn’t want flowers or words of regret,
She wants me to feel what I cannot forget.
And last night, I awoke to a whispering sound.
Her cold, crooked fingers were wrapped around my gown.
I tried to scream, but she covered my mouth,
Then dragged me toward the window facing south.
I fought and I kicked, but she wouldn’t release,
Her decaying smile stretching from cheek to cheek.
She pressed her lips against my ear,
And whispered the words I’ve dreaded to hear:
“You made me a monster when you took my breath.
You buried my body, but not my death.
You thought that the darkness would swallow my name…
But every night, I’ll make you do the same.”
Now I see her in every shadow that falls,
In the corners of rooms, in the cracks of my walls.
Sometimes she’s beautiful, just as before,
Sometimes she’s the thing that crawls across my floor.
I cannot escape her. I cannot be free.
The woman I buried has come back for me.
And perhaps the worst part, the thing I cannot bear,
Is that sometimes I see her brushing her hair.
Her long black braids. Her caramel skin.
Those lips I once loved, that terrible grin.
I killed the woman who once wore green…
But the shade of her is all that’s left of me.
