by Shaun Terry
Another dead body sits on the pile,
reeking of cigarettes and gin,
half-smiling up at me behind smeared makeup,
its eyes rotating, trying to lock into mine.
The threads of your little cornflower date dress
stretch – barely making it – from one hip
all the way to the other hip,
and you smell like roses and acetone.
I fumbled over microwavable cliches
and feigned confusion
of the exclusively internal sort,
but in the dark corridors of our “romance,”
I was really just reaching into your chest
like in the Temple of Doom scene,
only to swallow it whole
without anyone noticing,
I’m really very sorry. I didn’t mean it.
And yes; I ate your ice cream.
You’re not the first.
You won’t have been the last.