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.