This is the Woman who Killed Her Lover


This is the woman who killed her lover.

Look at her. Her tears made of plastic like her lips and her boobs.

Her truth painted the same transparent blonde as her hair.

How dare she sit there with a face made of stone.

How dare she cry when her sentence is passed down.

This woman who killed her man.


This is the woman who killed her lover.

He was in her apartment, with their children. He had reached into her pants when she tried to run away.

His fist landed on her cheek, leaving bruises across her face before she found a knife nearby.

Before she killed him in front of her children.


Look at how she makes headlines for dyeing her hair back brown. How they accuse her of sickness.

His hands left wounds on her body for years before the courts sent orders to protect her.

No one mentions that they didn’t.

No one mentions that his hands were still around her neck when police came.


This is the woman who killed her lover.

Out of cold blood. Of sickness. Of jealousy because he found someone new.

Even though she left him months ago. Even though she still wakes up screaming dreaming of him

She dreams of him still.


She sits there, hard. Furious.

His life is worth fifteen years of hers. Fifteen years. Her children will be in their twenties when she’s released. They will grow up with their mother in jail. When she gets out they won’t want to see her.

This is the woman who killed her lover.


She reads in her cell.

She has learned hard facts about her case from newspapers.

How police believe she’d been lying about where her bruises came from.

How she instigated it by refusing to leave him



This is the woman who killed her lover.

And she’d do it aagain-kids watching again.

Because she deserved peace she still didn’t have.

Because womens’ lives are only worth 3 years of mens’.

But she will serve 15.

And she sits, hard. furious.


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