So, after great debate and boredom during my Latin test I wrote another poem. I'm thinking I could do one for each character, or just the ones I think of during Latin test…Three hours of Latin…Why did I want to learn a dead language? Oh well…Tell me if I'm awful. Castro, that means you!

And Kate, you have my eternal love for proofing this.

Chapter Two of the Poem

(Dedicated to the author of the best review I've ever gotten-Fidel Castro.)

She is wicked.

She is evil.

She is my bloody, wilted rose.

I hear her coming up behind me

With the wheeling and the woes…

…Of her thorn choked throat.

She is stumbling,

She is faltering.

I don't know what to do.

Should I turn? Should I speak?

Should I kill her?

I know I want to.

I know I'll die to

Have my hands around her throat,

But I hear her coming…

…And I can't.

Why can't I do it?

She deserves it!

And yet my fingers are bit by rust,

And I cannot move as she whispers past my deadened heart.

I ache to touch.

I ache to feel.

I ache to stroke her broken neck…

…And so I do.

Her skin is soft.

Her skin pale,

With the lack of flowing blood,

That has spilled onto my hands…

…Of my silver metal skin

It is the silver of her shoes.

It is the silver of my tin.

It is silver of my missing heart.

She holds it in her hands,

And squeezes out the blood to make it beat.

Her reddened, blood drenched hands…

…Her hands…

…Her hands…

…Her hands I hold with mine.

She cannot feel me.

She cannot hear me.

I am underneath this tin.

This metal prison that conceals me,

And keeps the truth within.

That isn't me!

That isn't me!

I'm not tearing at your throat.

I know you're sorry.

I know you're wicked.

But you're my battered, wilted rose.

Had I kept you,

Had I loved you,

Would it have been this way?

Why can't I pull my hands,

From the thorns around your throat?

I ache to touch.

I ache to feel.

Yet those thorns that pull me in

Have grown around our hearts.

They make me squeeze,

And tighten my own grip.

I can't control it.

I can't stop it.

Please Nessa!

Please believe me!

I know you cannot hear me,

But everything I do I'm not doing to hurt you.

You weren't wicked.

You weren't evil.

You were a jaded, wilted rose.

You were abused,

You were forgotten.

I should have told you.

It should've ended that fabled night we danced.

But the time clock keeps on ticking,

And I cannot turn it back.

I do this all for you.

I know you're tortured by your past.

And I know you wish to die.

I do this all for you.

And I will fulfill your wish.