My life is a blooming pool of burgundy, maroon gasping in the face of doom dying on the **** of 70's carpet, tears soaked right through and you are my exit wound. Some piece of me that is missing a hole of despair that needs a fixing eyes wide open, in terror stuck glossy and still twitching.
Dearest wax figure of Bundy when you love, why must you take? Bring girls home on a Monday only for them to never awake. Despite what you say it is not an act of fate your manly hands are ****** and within them, lays the stake.
Your fingers reach out making themselves known in every shadowed alley I've watched the news and cried you've drawn another tally. Only strong within the cover of the night you cower away from crowded streets pray it all looks right. Someday, justice will find you and she will win the fight.