I'm the very picture of red-lipped

               hot-blooded petulance:

you comment on the glow of my cheeks –

        rouge has done wonders
for my complexion. You see,

        I'm usually very pale, & look as though

I'm wasting away. A touch of colour,

& I suddenly take on
all the lethargic allure of consumption.

                I mean, the truth is,

I'm being consumed by madness. My eyes see

your face, everywhere, in every
thing. In fact, all my work,

these scribblings, well – they're all

               about you, somehow.

Except, nothing I write comes from me
at all – it's like there's something

        else, some voice

inside my head,

        or maybe something larger –
speaking through me.

               And also, you see,

I am likely to die

                violently, any moment now,
by my own hand. My life's work

        will be cut short,

and people will lament the death of another

               thirty-something smoking housewife.