a heart's tale

--She sees it in the mirror, in the reflection of two eyes, completely drowned with tears. And in the scattered photos, displayed upon the wooded grain, the indifferent boards contrast their pain. They're colored not but black and white, save a single drop of blood, for it isn't known, at all for certain, if it's in the picture or on.
--They tell a story, a threatening tale, in warnings disguised as dreams, of the wrath of the perfect love, that was never meant to be. And now it all begins, with desperation never lost with the sun that never rose, and the rose that without sun, couldn't seem to grow.
--With a starlit night, star-crossed lovers, and a starry eyed young girl, perfection ceased to elude, this reality unfurled. And time elapsed, never noticed, never valued, never missed, and a thousand rolls of film, with a shutter that never clicked. Nothing seemed a hindrance, and such an enigma was ignored, and it was one more night, until the forgotten god she implored.
--She held the flower, ran to the door; seconds preceding, her collapse, to nothing and nevermore. And nothing diverted her focus, dreams abandoned in such haste, left naught but a blackened void, where the love was left to waste. And secluded she had company in the bottles, empty as her soul, and in the screams of pain and grief, and the echoes left to console.
--And every night the pile grew, until the dreary end, prints documenting each struggle, to live a life, to end a life, that wasn't meant to be. The edges developed a little darker, as she became a little weaker. And a sole picture rests upright, an eye, a cheek, a frown, and a cut so disrupting, a gash with blood erupting. The slightest trickle, the greatest defeat.