She said I was no longer attractive to her androgynous friends.
She said it nasal of why I wasn't mixing. And there I sat dejected,
my art work no more in vogue.
By the throat, I took Cassandra to the kitchen,
where I severely warned her, that I wasn't kidding,
she was making me despise her.
She countered with a cleaver, but I in a ballet move
hurled off the condo wrap around balcony.
Nineteen stories down, she lay shattered.
I confess my intent did in no way prevision evil.
Believe me, it was self defense, for hell knows no fury
than a relationship between an gallery owner and her partner
who happen to be more than just professional acquaintances.
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