Hair as red as apples snags on branches

A basket swings by her side filled with nothing but secrets

too naive, too young 

Her hand is on the door now

too many lies

She's pulling back the sheets with a smile

Her cloak is on the ground 

too many teeth 

He pulls her close

too in love with danger 

She's not smiling anymore

Why didn't she listen?

too late

all that's left is a basket completely still and a letter

too much blood

Dear Mr. Wolf, my love,

Satisfied he plucks a strand of hair redder than blood from her cloak

too heartless