Crossing

There is no more need for you, now. Should I keep my killer?

Murderer of the misled, your gentle prints are everywhere. But no one is looking for you.

Your sanguine stroke, plunging the knife forward in full view of the greedy glass eye. Tender turned to Tinder. You snap, you chat. Filter. Your wolves gather.

With a slasher’s practice you swipe right. You match, and my bruised blood flies. You smear it with pointy fingers; a thirsty boy audience erupts with erotic glee.

Your blade flaps and laughs. You circle back and twirl with an injured smile. A final fatal strike, and for the first time I rise.

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