Serial Killer

i don’t know
if i should
write
about you
anymore

i wanted to
tell you
but i know
you have no
ear for that

i don’t want
to watch your
heart
break
anymore

i don’t think
i should
stand
by your side
to listen
to the
crack

sickening,
like
twisting
breaking
bone

i don’t think
i should
step
into your
dark house
anymore

you leave knife cuts
on my pillows
then cover your tracks

hiding bloodless pieces of me
(with your other bodies)
in black plastic sacks
beneath your floorboards
like a child hiding
chocolate wrappers
and broken china

i don’t know
if i should
write
about you
anymore

you did it so deftly
i admire you for that

but
i should
not
be worshipping
a cold
blooded
killer

I’m Not a F*cking Dog

what can I say?
you
were more
dirt mouthed
and chicken shop common
than the cheap boys you glowered at
in their
torn t-shirts
and spray on jeans
stinking up the lifts
in their piss cologne

more like
the muscle men
who carry their plastic haired girls
in under one arm
you are
crueller, craftier, crook eyed and weaker
than the boys you abhorred
more than you would ever like
to admit

i cant believe
i wasted my favourite perfume on you.