A Box Of Doughnuts

A ribbon of silk tied with a bow,
A glossy wrapping paper, that shone and glowed.
In it, was contained a box of  eight fried treats,
Of glazed, honey-dipped, and sugary sweets.
He had her favourites - all
She had admitted only last fall
Blushing slightly, she'd confessed,
How she was obsessed,
With these fried balls of dough,
(He didn't hear much though,
Distracted by the speckles of green in her eyes)
But then she had sighed.
She hadn't had them for a year or two,
(Peer pressure does that to you)
She thought herself fat, when she clearly was not,
Who wants to be curvy when you can be hot?
She thence skipped meals, and cried when
Looked at her 'fat' self in the mirror then
She cried and ate, and cried some more,
Then retched and dirtied the bathroom floor.
She was ashamed, yet she spilled it all to him,
She knew he wouldn't judge her for her sins.
It was all done in the hope to lose some weight,
And maybe finally score a prom date?
She'd said the last line with a bashful gaze,
He'd been thinking about her pained smile for days.
He wished he could make her see
How beautiful she could be,
When she didn't at all try,
How mesmerizing her face was, when she laughed, or even cried.
Knowing she'd love them, he got packed a box,
He knew it would be perfect to knock off her socks.
He also knew she'd refuse to eat them, but thank him for being so kind
But maybe the personalized message on them would change her mind?
Thinking happy thoughts, he shifted the gear of his car,
He hummed to himself, and saw her house from afar.
He got ready to pull up, the rearview mirror he checked,
It happened all too fast, his car beyond damage was wrecked.
She heard the crash and ran outside her gate,
She sunk to the floor when she recognized the shattered nameplate.
His possessions were sorted through, the box of  doughnuts lay forgotten,
If only to the right destination it would've gotten,
The message on them was still intact to those who would see -
The eight doughnuts read, "Will You Go To Prom With Me ?"

Vlogging and all

I've started a vlog.
Instead of studying.
It's about my days as a buffoon.
Here is the link -
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ywLUDK2erUM

Ex-Husband.

She closed her eyes.

A teardrop was balanced neatly upon her wet lashes. As she angrily stomped her foot, the tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes tumbled down her face in gay abandon, past her pale cheeks, past her long, flowing hair, and landed into her now damp dress, which had been a gift from her husband...or should she call him that?

Thinking this, she clutched her face in her hands, losing her patience, and cried hysterically, stomping her feet up and down. She gasped and forced herself to stop crying, regaining her strange calmness.

She opened her eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room, now mixed with a sinister, almost metallic smell. She ran her hand shakily over her usually smooth, but now, wrinkled forehead, almost as if trying to even out the creases set deep within her skin. She limply tried to finger-comb her hair, scattered all over her (usually) peaceful parlor. Absentmindedly she chewed on her bottom lip, then said out loud to no one in particular (or so it seemed) :

"My marriage is over."

There was a muffled cry at this. Hearing it, she once again angrily stomped her foot. She inspected her right hand, looking blankly at the gold and white ring adorning her finger. She twirled it around and around in her hand, remembering how, twenty seven years ago, her husband, well, now ex-husband, had gone down on one knee, prior to slipping it onto her bony finger. She remembered how she'd blushed, how he couldn't stop smiling. How he had vowed to love her, to cherish her, to take care of her. Were they just hollow words? Empty promises, holding no meaning whatsoever? Maniacally she stomped her feet, chuckling darkly, thinking of all the lies, her husband, well, now ex-husband, must have told her, while he was busy spinning a romantic tale with some other wretched woman. How he must have lied to her, day in and day out, while she unsuspectingly woke up next to him every morning, how she faithfully slept next to him every night, until today morning, when she had found a picture of this other woman in his wallet, with her phone number and a heart (what where they, teenagers?) scribbled at the back.

Recalling that awful moment, she stomped her foot once more and she took off her ring. Angrily she hurled it to the wall, from where it bounced off, and fell beneath her feet, striking against the metal of her knife, before landing squarely in the pool of her husband, well, now dead husband's blood.

Calmly she removed the knife wedged between her toes from her husband's, well, dead husband's heart, not bothering to cut open the ropes tying him.

She reached into her late husband's pocket and fished out his wallet, looking at the dreaded picture. She carefully scanned the picture, making sure she memorized it. Her lips twisted into an ugly smile. Pocketing the bloody knife, she kissed the man she loved for the last time, before hurrying out of the door.

She had another job to do.