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A dark and desolate, oily street
in a dimly-lit part of town
gave home to a girl of flaming hair
shadows offer their deadly wares
yet, off she strolls to pick up snacks
at the paint-chipped, pock-marked building that
is home to constant homicides- sirens wailing late outside-
two am or afternoon-
doesn’t matter when…
Mairéad makes her way each day
to the crumbling, struggling establishment
zoned in heavy industry
vacant lots, asphalt thick
reflecting gunshot echoes loud
casings left upon the ground- find their way to a necklace, 'round
young Mairéad’s pale, sun-starved neck…
“The Murder Mart,” the townsfolk say
as Mairéad passes, the townsfolk pray
she makes it safely home again
before the streetlamp's reddish glow
signals another nightly show…
She found him laying on his side
gunshot wounds oozing wide
thirteen stab wounds to his eye
not a pretty site to see,
Mairéad inspects him casually…
“You’re the thirteenth guy this week”
she said, wiping off his cheek,
she placed his eyeball in a cup
telling him that, with lesser luck,
she’d have both his eyeballs red
in the jar beside her bed…
He thanked her for the comforting thought;
-said "she was most beautifully wrought,"
that "it was getting cold outside"
and "darker, darker," then he died…
Each day young Mairéad, skipping down
the cracking, buckling concrete walk
goes to the local Murder Mart
merry on her way.
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