I Once Loved a Lass, She Once Loved a Fever

She knew that he loved her. Why patronize then
and beg of his love in gold?
 
Was a homemaker when
she saw her mom in absolve for her own jaded rite on the curb.
 
Torn between images of a different sew sheet lying down,
no comforter could swaddle the growing old,
and thus collapse the mother, and the daughter,
she carries the genes of before.
 
It's not written to appease the boy. It's not about the man.
It's about the woman, the woman,
who through broken heart,
knew only the overpour of money on the pipes.
It never rained. It never stormed. So she wasn't prepared for another person's love.
 
And she stretched it like the band of elastic.
But bands break,
and hands break,
and men hang by a rope.
 
But it's not her fault, that she wanted his attention,
that she wanted his heart unrequited
or unconditional enough.
 
So men hang, and girls cry,
but not because they loved,
except that only too many die.