He lay dormant,
his mind swimming in the scent
of decaying flesh;
the perfume of his lust.
And like the volcano that sleeps quietly
(fooling those who wish not to see
the soft bubbles boiling gently),
his loins awakened
a new day’s thirst.
Eyes so blue
defied the deathly blackness
hidden expertly
by his handsome façade.
So when he called her
she felt no burn from the molten lava;
instead she saw butterflies
floating on the breeze.
When his cloth met her breath,
a dizziness engulfed her teenage mind
and she waltzed…
…softly into no man’s land.
If only she could have stayed there
for then she would never have felt the sharpness
of his knife as he carved in her
a new doll for him to play with.
And he would play…
… and play
until that final stroke;
he would not stop
until the doll
bro ke
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