The Psychopath

In shadows thick, she carves a grin, No conscience dwells beneath her skin. She counts the stars like tally marks, Each one a spark snuffed in the dark. She mimics tears, rehearses pain, But empathy runs dry as the rain. A charming mask, a velvet lie, With every smile, a soul will die. She walks through crowds, a ghost, this name, No guilt, no fear, not even shame. Her voice is as smooth as vodka's clear, Yet leaves a taste her tounge can't chase. The mirror holds no truth to see— Just vacancy and mimicry. Her heart, a hollow metronome, That ticks and tocks in silent chrome. And death, to her, feels just like home.