She sits by a letter she wrote with a pill, but says nothing of intentions or reasons to kill. To kill everything she lived for or thought she could be. To be nothing's much worse for a person like me.      She's a ghost now. Dead like the day she was born. She sold herself and now she's in love with a creep.      So fly. Fly like an angel. Cry like a saint. Bleed like a patient in hospital clothes that she wore when I opened the door. She kissed like the French. I walked out when she died like a rose.      She never trusts happiness cause happiness sucks. And the love that she had, well it all turned to dust. Dust on a lampshade and dust from the heart of a guy she burned just to know she's alive.