Sherri
Luckily his spell of love on her
lasted only a minute
because she soon recognized
its numerous bullshit layers
when he made her sell drugs
in downtown Cincinnati.
She never had a mother
who taught her to sharpen her knives
and nails before they would dig for food,
and her father never told her
to wear her Wonder Woman costume
underneath her chic work blazer,
and he snarled: “Hey, whatssup girly girl!
Show off some more skin—
so the druggies could get their hooks
on the merchandise
if they’re all staring at you.”
She, an acolyte and true believer
of Lifetime Television,
knew that true love didn’t result
from illegal acts of vengeance,
and, thanks to these shows,
she kept a knife in her cowboy boot.
‘Cause she wasn’t going to die
in these streets selling wares of meth
& pills; big cities never did give her
a thrill—if she got out of there,
she’ll tiptoe back to Texas
but she left him two souvenirs:
a bloody, deep slash in
one of his perfect pecs,
the same ones that first lit
her interest in him,
and another in his side,
which snuffed him out
all because
he said,
“You’re nothing to me
but a candy hooker.”
Horror Sleaze Trash 