An obsession with the macabre doesn’t make me crazy. I swear.

I have applied for every job that has come my way, and still I am hearing nothing but crickets on the other side. BUT, I am trying to make the most of my afternoons off, writing and working out and lounging in the air conditioner.

Yesterday I marched into a local Barnes & Noble and demanded to speak to a manager (or…quietly and politely asked…whatever), only to be told they are not hiring, but that they would keep my resume and application on file. I am looking into a second job, until something even more wonderful comes along; Joe and I are hoping to get our own place, and we need lots of $$$ <—that stuff.

Once in a while I veer away from the path of novel writing and attempt to churn out a poem or two. I have submitted a few pieces in a contest for Writer’s Relief, and am keeping all fingers and toes crossed. The majority of my poetry follows the theme of most of my other writing: gore, murder, depression, the works. Should I die and someone comes across my flash drive, they’d probably think I had some major personal issues.

I’m not sure where the intense interest comes from. But, I find myself being able to explain the death and decomposition of a character in more elaborate detail than I am the love between two others.

This poem is a quick glimpse at the usual topic of my writing, from the point-of-view of a wife and mother murdered by her husband, and how he lied to their daughter. Feedback is appreciated. I need subscribers!

 

I am here, I am silent

A mother in a conduit

A daughter in a murky lie

I am here, I am silent

Screaming your name

And bouncing off the steel

That you used to

Hide my limbs

In pieces

In the plastic

That held

Our daughter’s crafts

That were never

Quite good enough

But you scraped them

From the darkness

And put me inside

And told her

I had left her

While you

Kissed her on the head

And I sucked

The cinnamon

Of her skin

And the things

She once held

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