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Therese Aug 2017
The body of a girl shot down. Hidden by flowers and sheets. Wounds that finally refused to heal. The usual suspects.

Father.
Mother.
Lover.
Stranger.

From one dead girl walking to another. I can see you. I can smell you beneath the perfumes and florals. The usual questions.

Was it a noose; a candlestick; a human hand?

Was it in the bedroom; the ballroom; the alleyway?

Was it for lust; greed; power?

Was it your fault?
P E Kaplan Apr 2014
First I spied the neck, sagging innocently enough,
one might even say blissfully, reflected in the glass laptop.
The phrase "whodunit" came out of nowhere,
and a low, silky, voice whispered,
"Aw, don't stop before the good part."

The villain left a few clues; the wispy hair strands;
some scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles,
listless, crinkly, skin pale, lightly pimpled,
and a weird, wrinkly crevasse teased,
"Aw, don't stop before the good part."

Totally hooked, curiosity piqued; southward I spotted
where a once perky treasure "chest" was hidden,
two solemn, half-empty grain sacks, laying sideways,
basically lifeless they lazily muttered,
"Aw, don't stop before the good part."

The final chapter, the mystery solved,
no crime, no villain, nothing stolen, just flesh alchemy.
Where once a taut, flat, plateau of supple skin, resided
now a lumpy, bumpy, flabby belly, murmured sweetly,
"Boston Creme Pie and a cup of tea would hit the spot."

— The End —