I heard a song that I think you would have liked,
for all I know you do already
somewhere out there.

"Black as the kettle, the hypocrite pot"

I imagine such a line making you smile.
Clever girl,
how rose colored you are.

How damaged you were.
How lost you'll always be.
I'll never know you again
and isn't that just justice
for my narcissistic
youth.

While I accept my sentence
I call upon the mercy of the court
to have your ghost, ever haunting,
visit me
no
more.