She’s exquisite like a collector’s doll.
Dainty, porcelain beauty,
Dark as the night,
With the eyes of a feral cat caught in headlights.
Her hair sways with the wind
Both the one independent,
And the one caught up in her movements
And ripples into the tornado of my desires.
She’s probably never been touched,
A dewy bud waiting to be opened;
To burst wide apart
For the nectar to be sucked dry
And then wilt to death.
What a shame,
To see a once sweet smelling, wet, bud
Dry up into foul, dry, mulch.
After 12 days of carefully trailing her scent,
I’ll make it immortal.
Strange how her trusting brown eyes,
Dilate into pitch blackness of fear,
As I hold her.
Maybe innocence is just a touch away from death.
My axe slices right through her throat,
As if it were that of mere plastic and wax.
I finally have the beautiful, pitch black head to me.
A little blood is all I really need to mine her essence,
A little for taste,
And a heady trophy.
And suddenly the room in my basement is taken busy.
I wake her up with a kiss,
My wife of 13 years.
“Here’s another handmaid for your collection”
My little inside joke,
Safe Inside me.
She unearths the intoxicating perfume.
“Oh, this one’s exotic and musky”
“Put her on then”
The insider chuckles again.
And the lovemaking
is tender as though virginal,
The delicious gift of eternal loyalty.
"We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand." - Pablo Picasso