Little Murderess

I flew miles and miles to reach your bed,
Where men speak a different language and women say nothing at all.
Here night crouches at the threshold like a hungry cat,
There the eyes of stars are bloodshot with the dawn.

The back of your head contains sweetness I’m afraid will spill,
I’m always chasing it in a crowd.
It’s like a high a young, toothless woman mumbles about,
When she accepts an offer of a cigarette and remembers better days.

She has never known sheets so white,
She will envy me as I’m flying toward you.
I have given her another gift – an empty beer bottle
That joins others in a clinking chorus in her bag.

I’ve stained the rim with lipstick I mark you with,
The ghost of a kiss is all that’s acceptable here.
You kiss me with your eyes in the street,
And other men I walk by do much more.

I would like to take all these people and wring them out;
Or make their eyes boil and burst in their heads.
They will run down like egg-whites, their fake tears,
For things they don’t know enough to be sorry for.

They’re lucky I don’t track dirt to my bed.
They’re lucky my curses are like matted fur.

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