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Poetry

Crimson Treacle

she wears a noose of silver
around her throat
St. Christopher lays flat
feigning protection

the blood on her chin
cloys like syrup
but her tongue
tastes like rust and copper

she exhales pleasure
sensually chewing
torn tendons and soft flesh
against carefully crafted teeth

arrogantly
she smirks
allowing more treacle to comfort her chin
gargling on voracious words
‘if he had a silver noose around his neck
he may have survived remained intact, but doubtful’

muscle memory
precise and purposeful
dismembers her lust
as she dismembers and disembowels

she showers
in his carotid crimson treacle
relishing the flavour and feel
as she splits sinew and bone
feeling righteous purity

the crescendo of violence
always anticlimactic
plastic wrapped bundles of body and tissue
a food parcel to sate her appetite
a bitter sense of home economics

she returns to her disguise
adorning a lambswool cardigan and skirt
once more ready
for the world to see her
as it always will
meek and vulnerable

she looks up to the moon proudly
graciously thanking her for her gifts
her burgeoning entropy
the as yet diagnosed
clinical lycanthropy.

This is my first attempt at writing a horror poem. I’d love to know what you think.

(Photo Credit: Canva)