Murder, We Wrote
When we played Clue as a family,
Miss Scarlet always was the killer.
It was my mother’s warning
about a certain type of woman.
As a young Professor Plum
In the study with a candlestick
Guess who I pursued?
I don’t like to dedicate poems
But this one is for the harlots
In the room.
The ones who don’t yet want to kill me.
The ones with scars where they shouldn’t be.
The ones that actually need the unpoetic trigger warning I should
Have just given.
Passion by both its definitions
Is a form of consideration
And the passion you gave me was a roll
Of the dice.
Through laughter and lacrimation
Verity and vulnerability
Your crazy intertwined with mine
As we took each other’s meds
Which were the same.
I suspect
It is a crime
Against all genders
That the game lacks
A character, masculine and moonstruck,
Easy and wild.
Make an accusation,
Open the envelope
And pull out the card I drew of myself.
My mother hated when I did that.
Horror Sleaze Trash 