Her skin split,
her eyes wide,
the dreams of possessing
what she lately denied
defied in the moment
of the irrevocable
slide of her body to the ground
where he wanted her
six feet or twelve feet under.
More, he wanted her hurting
longer, but she stopped
short and breathed
her last, accusation on her face
like it always was,
and he wanted that look gone because
that was the look he wanted gone
when he did it.
And her family was next.
His life was spent,
sped out of control,
flung far and fucked-up on a
drum roll to the crash
of his life and he wondered if he could
meet with a knife tonight,
or no, a cop's gun,
or maybe he'd end it himself,
having seen what he wanted, her body
down
still at last and no
more his than it ever was
but she was the first and
easy.
Not the worst moment
to hang a last thought on,
he thought at the last--
a hatred to death.
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