she was a serial killer. not in the literal sense of the word; physically she was as frail and bony as a baby bird. no, she was a metaphorical serial killer. couldn't harm a fly with her hands but her words were just like bullets from a pistol.
and damn, was she a good shot. after what seemed like weeks of bliss she'd suddenly open fire. aim and hit you when you were down, words punctuating your stomach, arms, thighs. each word a new dagger, each syllable a bloody wound. fiery sentences strung together as hot bullets. all carefully targeted as she relentlessly pulled the trigger.
there's a graveyard of them. those she killed, those she conquered. the victims of her serial rage. each killed in the same manner: knives then bullets. she always finished off her victims with her signature move. the same two words every time, the two words that stopped a man's heart and doomed him to an early grave:
"it's over."
the manner of speaking changed depending on the man. she may have been a serial killer but she had flaws. her killer smile and her deadly eyes. that poisonous laugh. some men would meet razor sharp words and stilettos in their faces. others would face gentle death and soft hands. myself, I died when those deadly eyes filled with tears and those two words hit me with the force of a train.
her rampage ended, though, years ago. eventually she met the police. and that's where her story ends. no longer allowed to run free, no longer allowed to break hearts. red lipstick put back on the shelf and black nail polish tucked away. the probation officer has her under strict rule, marking her with the ultimate form of handcuffs: a silver diamond ring, locking away her brutally beautiful hands and stopping her murderous ways.
i don't think we haunt her. however, us, the ones she killed, her lithe figure haunts. where did we go wrong, we think, why would she hurt me like that? and we watch her cook and clean and take the kids to daycare and we laugh and cry. that's not her, we'll say, remembering the empty bottles of vodka with lipstick on the mouths. that's not her, we'll argue, seeing the new cotton dresses and sandals pushed to the front of the closet while her louboutins and leather cry out in the back.
she may have killed us with those final words, but she hasn't destroyed us. love is funny like that. her daggers remain though our bodies decay. and we learn to admire these daggers, these bullet holes. a crime of passion. symbols of our deaths by her hand.
but sometimes we don't think we're quite dead yet. we are ghosts. unfinished business ties us here.
we just keep believing she's gonna come around and resurrect us.
but she's not.
