She wears a purple heart,
etched permanently on her pure,
swan-down chest- rumored to be nothing
more than favorite color, favorite shape,
favorite ending to a fairytale.
That on so crisp a morning, one might stumble upon
a delicate spruce, overburdened
with the weight of tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Whoever said tomorrow’s another day
didn’t shuffle in the shadow of the condemned.
Darkness drapes its stifling weight
around the words
she once held tender and dear-
Dropping stones shrouded now
by the gravity of regret.