She Had Known Bitter Days .
Sin is , or sin isn't ,
she thinks ,
as she squeezes the trigger .
One eye squints ,
icy with detachment .
This is payback ,
for those damaged years ,
you uncaring bastard .
The afternoon is bright ,
the room is silent ,
in the sultry depths of August .
Mirrors magnify and thoughts assemble ,
as humid air waits mutely .
Cloistered in serene order ,
drifting away ,
on a draught of simple murder .
First shot , in the groin .
He squeals , startled , rabbit-like .
Fluid runs down his leg ,
blood flower blossoms ,
as clouds soak sun ,
up in the dusk ,
welcoming the onset of night .
Jagged edge pain , unknown fright .
She laughs thinly , takes aim again .
At his thumping heart ,
in the blood pumping silence .
Scatter matter , shatter shock .
The slug smashes his shoulder blade .
He falls on the oriental rug ,
howling through bullet splintered bone .
He writhes ; she hopes for pain .
She points the gun menacingly ,
wants him to beg .
He can't speak , wet with blood .
Turning in futile circles ,
he gulps for air .
She decides she has good timing .
Aims randomly , hits his thigh .
He stops frantically writhing .
She knows this slow dance
is his last psalm .
this is their eucharist .
They are sharing final seconds .
As the pistol bucks in her fist ,
and she gives him the gift
of white light and eternal silence .
She prods at his dying face
with the toe of her suede high heel .
And shoots him full in the teeth .
Blood sparkles in the crazy air ,
like lemon squirted over grilled fish .
She lights a cigarette , casually .
One more shot for the road...
Aims at his forehead ,
laughs , and doesn't miss .
She takes a cab back to her condo .
Changes clothes , packs what she needs .
Two hours later , at the airport ,
she reflects happily ,
unmoved by her murderous deeds .
Dressed in a gaucho jacket ,
and a wide-brimmed , black Madrid hat .
Bound for New Orleans , and no way back .
In the Mardis Gras hotel room ,
she examines herself .
Runs slender fingers over the purple scars
that now defile her chest .
She remembers the words of rejection ,
and the lack of needful sympathy .
The cruel taunts of lost womanhood ,
and the solo pain of chemotherapy .
She is not in remission .
The poisonous flower still blooms ,
opening , insidiously , inside her .
Her days are numbered ,
cheap as yesterdays cloakroom tickets .
But it is carnival time ,
and she has come here to die ,
in the party atmosphere .
She wakes to the sound of flutes and drums ,
drifting on the willowy breeze .
Tonight she will dance again ,
until her feet bleed from the rough streets .
She will drink dark rum ,
passed from anonymous revellers,
and let the dark mahogany spirit
warm her cancerous tumours .
At dusk the sky fills with violet ash ,
from the crackling carnival bonfires .
She goes deep into the crowd ,
cherishing every passing moment .
Amongst the parrot feathers and tinfoil ,
the glinting diamantes and white silky blaze .
Now she does not care anymore .
She had known the taste of bitter days .
His dead eyes stare at the ceiling ,
fixed in an eternity of self remorse .
The blood has long drained
into the oriental rug island .
His skin is cold and translucent .
The gauze curtains ripple and sway .
Silence is the only witness
to retributions hardened ways .
She can smell honeysuckle and French roses .
Can hear a choir , emotive and distant .
She closes her eyes for a moment .
Can hear the flapping of linen sheets
as the maid unravels them .
Like bird's wings .
Free birds .
As she quietly slips away .
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