It was the socks, in the end, that concluded their love story.

Betrayal: such a bitter word, seemingly so unjust when confronted with something so mundane as the laundry. Yet there they were, the dagger in her side, hiding in plain sight.

After years of marriage, she had thought her husband to know all her haunts and habits, specifically a hatred of bright accessories.

Perhaps the God's stirred up a neon pink concoction in their laboratory to warn her of his infidelity.

If not, the discovery of the other woman's gaudy socks so unlike her own was a remarkable coincidence.

She is beauty,

          buried in ashes.

She is joy,

          drowning in sorrow.

She is life, 

          shackled to shadows.

She is free,

           perhaps tomorrow.

His world starts spinning. Within a matter of seconds, he crashes to the floor.

Daisy rushes to his side. She checks his pulse and smiles.

‘‘I will take care of all your estates. There’s no time to waste.’’

Daisy heads to clean Arnold’s tumbler. She wondered if the poison would work right away.

It seems like Arnold had enjoyed his drink, the poison had given it a little extra kick. Maybe she should have paid someone to pulverize him. But that might have taken more time to plan.

#Double~cross

He promised to love me in sickness and in health.

When I felt dizzy he told me to go to bed. When I felt pain, he ignored it. When my legs gave out during a spell, he shouted furiously, "Sit down!" When the doctor told me it might be something worse, that I needed more tests, he didn't hold me. When depression overcame me, he told our thearpist that it was annoying to put away his guns. When I cried, holding the knife, he turned up the TV.

Illness is scary. Sickness and in health, he didn't keep his promise.

[B]etter me than them

[E]very nuance of the lie realized

[T]rying to keep it together

[R]eally though im tattered

[T]hrough

[A]ll the way to my very core

[Y]esterday will be the last of me

[A]nd my tomorrow wont come

[L]ove died when i surmised

[W]hat it was youve done

[O]nly for empty material things

[N]o value placed in me

[A]nother barrier to commodity

[N]ow id trade every oddity

[D]own to my very breath

[I]f for a moment

[L]ost love could be mended

[O]r the open hole in my chest

[S]tiched back together

[T]he value of connection gone.

“I knew of your deed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Unfairly, you judged her for her perfume.”

“I thought of your teachings.”

“You betray yourself. She spent coin on me while you took coin for me.”

“Not for you, for the twelve.”

“Coin does not feed, I feed.”

He walks away.

“Will I see you on The Mount of Olives, tonight?”

“That you can trust.”

On The Mount of Olives, I prayed…

the rest slept.

Peace children, rest.

You will try to aide

For he will come with clubs and swords

But it's the kiss that will take away your ward.

Was I the betrayer or the betrayee?

Some may argue that I started it.

But did they all have to turn against me?

They didn't even give me a chance to explain.

They abandoned me without a flicker of doubt.

I definitely betrayed the most loyal.

Turning her away without explanation.

My words put the final nail in the coffin.

Our friendship dead.

But her friend betrayed me long before.

When I was branded a liar.

The accusation came before my hurtful words.

This label had others doubting my worth and friendship.

Abandoning me.

So I ask who betrayed whom?

Blood, soaking through my shirt, running down my arms, covering my hands.

Blood, all that I can see, clouding my vision...a friend lay dying by the will of my sword. Blood, it trails down the path I walk, and I hear my name called on the wind.

Blood, my soul crimson, as I take slow steps towards the enemy, loyalty cast aside for gold.

Blood, it catches the gaze of those who trusted my facade, their eyes shining with tears. Blood, it paints the streets, a contract broken, a bond betrayed.

Blood, the language of murder...I've lost everything it seems.

People tell you frequently that your body is a temple. If you treat it well, it will never betray you; it will allow you to do incredible things. She did everything right, but her efforts proved fruitless.

What is one to do when they live inside a temple on fire? How does one escape from the confines of their own broken body?

“Fibromyalgia has no cure,” the doctor said.

No escape. You must live in the pain.

The betrayal of one’s body, the vessel that transports you through life, is the greatest betrayal of all.

I sat across from the woman who had raised me and smiled fondly at her, as she placed a cup of tea in my fingers. I was the crown princess, and the only child that my mother was told she would ever bare. However she defied odds and now was expecting a son. I smiled at her as I drank. “I’m afraid you're no longer inheriting the throne” she stated. “Poison?” I asked calmly. She nodded. I smiled fondly at my mother one last time. “I’m afraid neither will your son” I replied as she finished her tea.