She was made of men.
She had consumed something
like one-twenty - don't worry. Only their souls,
which they didn't seem to miss. Her name
was Ailee. The "l" was silent. Mostly, so
was she. People always ask,
"What was she wearing?"
Today she was wearing flats.
She pretty much always was,
until she got back to her flat
and kicked them off. Her hair
was dyed its natural color, her
eyes were eternally hard with shine.
Her intent was on her next target's
soul.
Eventually, she will get round
to mine.
Male poets be like.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Mel.
ReplyDelete