She was a troubled girl, says the color of her dress
hanging over a torn up and damaged door;
a sad one too, says the tear soaked bed in
the corner; A strange, God-hating
one, says the carving in the wall and
the positions of the rocks on the shelf;
but not a girl of society, say the poems
of suicide and depression on the desk.
A cat lived with her, says the scratching
post near the door with catnip covering the
floor around it, and it lived in the room
says the bag of cat food ripped open.
Light was scarce, say the candles melted
on the desk dripping down to the floor,
and so was food, say the half eaten bars
of food and bags of chips.
Something went wrong, says the knife in
a puddle of blood. Poems on the desk say
she was not part of society; the color of
her dress say she worn it many times.
And the cat? Hairballs line the floor like soldiers -
cat food, some black hair, a few potato chips.
Something went wrong, they say.