I was killed
Multiple times
In multiple ways
By the same people
At the same place.

Why do you run,
Dear?
I love you,
Please don’t fear.
I’ll take this knife
To your ribs;
Slice open your chest
Toy with your life.
If you would just love me
Maybe I’d play a bit nicer;
But right now I’ll sear your flesh
With my favorite BIC™ lighter.

Slop
in the trough.
Poison cough.
Shattered femur.
No dreamer.
In a world of crime
It is
Time

I did it
I finally did it
And I don't regret it!
I killed him
with my own hands
Let him bleed out on the floor
Gutted by the blade of the knife I held in my hands.
I can still hear his screams
His terror
His agony
as the sharp metal pierced his flesh.
I laughed at her agony
Enjoyed his screams,
Rejoiced in the fear I caused him,
the same one he caused me for years
Trapped me in his world of terror
giving me no respite.
A smug smile took shape on my face
as I thought back and observed my masterpiece.
The helpless body of a man
who didn't deserve forgiveness
who didn't deserve to live.
So yes, I did, gentlemen
And as I said
I do not regret it.

I have nothing more to add, your honor.


"Confession of ****** --------- ------- -----------. The case is considered closed."

Sweet the girl and tender her age,
She's too young for the fire's rage.
But, alas, the law still stands,
And punishment for her crime demands.

Little Oshichi, that greengrocer girl,
Her hands, restrain; and hair, unfurl.
She stands upright against the stake,
Weeping as she regrets her mistake.

She had fallen in love with a page,
While a fire had roared and raged.
As her house was burnt away,
Love, within her heart, gave way.

Entranced, enraptured, and captured with him,
Oshichi went forth on a fanciful whim.
Believing that it would bring them together,
She struck a flint and started a fire.

A clanging tocsin pierced the night,
"Me-gumi, hark! There's a fire to fight!"
A throng of ***** steeplejack boys
Rush to the scene with swaggering poise.

Oshichi now gazed in horror, aghast,
Watching as the fire spread fast–
Her dream of meeting her youthful lover
Set ablaze with burning desire.

Arrested, tried, and sentenced to suffer,
The judge, kind sir, tried his best to save her.
"Are you not 15?" he asked, worriedly.
"I'm 16, my lord," she answered meekly.

Bewildered and anxious, he asked yet again,
"Surely you're 15, young one, dear saint?"
She bowed her head and shed a tear.
"No... I'm 16," she answered with fear.

Cursing his fate, the judge had no choice.
He gave his sentence with a downcast voice:
"Yaoya Oshichi–what girl so tender–
Shall be burnt an arson offender."

Bound and burnt for want of love,
Oshichi lifts her gaze above.
Weeping as her smoke ascends,
She cries to heaven, its mercy lend.

At last, Oshichi succumbs to the fire,
Consumed by passion borne of desire.
Sweet the girl and bitter the flame,
As her lover cries out her name.

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.

I felt it
When I spoke
To the judge,
For my son,
Years of shell work
Encasing fear and sanity, cracked with each glance, falling away. Everyone listening.
I was left lost
Like a snail losing it's shell
Mushy and vulnerable
A Pulpy mess.

Was it enough
That I said
Or too much.
So much was left out
The Russian Roulette admission
The thoughts of jumping 15 floors from his hotel
So many letters making up words and paragraphs upon paragraphs
of 15 years.
Throwing out a gun
Into the city trash.

How could I be anything more than a mother
Who let the saving flatten her out of existence. Incoherence and pulp.
Will it be discarded
All that effort
To keep him alive
At my expense.
Is that what mothers do?
I'll never get to return. Life doesn't
Let you.

I do not like you
I do not like you
I do not like you
I do not like you.

But I am too afraid
to disclose this
to a face only seen
through a screen;
too many times
in my crime podcast
has a gracious disclaimer
turned oscillating lungs
into a nameless victim.

No,
I do not wish
to become
just another episode.

So for now,
sure,
I like you,
I guess I’m just
“bad at responding.”