Haikuesday: Zombie


Heap of cheapened flesh

I will massacre your brain

You ooze and you lose.



Let’s drink this in
As stones from the earth
Let’s reflect
As a dusty floor
And let’s forget
And run
Copper, blood, teeth,

Under My Thumb.

He would have her again. That much was certain. It would take work yes, but the pain she had provided would offer endless encouragement. This was revenge, perhaps spite. That he would find vindication would be his goal. He no longer craved her touch. No longer did he seek her laughter, her mouth. This was a new goal. He would find a way to fold and stretch her to his will. Break her apart until she crumbled before him. He would have to start small. Casual dates where he would practice his techniques. It’s not hard to pretend to be human. To pretend to feel what others do. People are so desperate for connections that they will risk everything to reach out, to gamble. For what? Love? He didn’t believe in such a thing. It was an abstract, invented concept. An explanation for a god that did not exist. But he would exploit that belief in others. A smile at the right moment. A premeditated touch. A cliched saying, “Somebody really hurt you, didn’t they?” This is all it would take. He would start small, with feeble desperate minds, and work outward. Towards her.
When they began, they were perfect. He would spend all of his time wasting hers. There was no greater sanctuary than her mouth, her touch, and he explored them freely. Looking backward, perhaps the signs were always there. She had always been a private person, reclusive in a way. But that was what intrigued him. She was almost mystical in her secrets. A forbidden island, an oasis from the sea of mediocrity, and only he was privy. She never spoke of her former lovers, but he didn’t mind. In that blind rush of infant love, nothing really matters but the next fix. And he was an addict. Certainly hooked the first time she took him in her bed. The first taste of her lips. Her invitations, her stomach, the flicker of eyelids. There are no twelve steps for this kind of drug. A junkie. Even through the fights, the jealousy, the ugliness dipped in beauty. In the beginning they had ignited together like a flame, but just as suddenly, it was over, and she was gone.
And now here he sits. Across from another Jessica. Another Laura. Another somebody, nobody. It didn’t matter. To him, this was necessary. This was practice. He was punching the clock. Perfecting that false confidence, that alluring smile. He would listen. He would talk. He would reveal nothing, but hint at everything. He would drink of these girls until he was full, until he was bloated with revenge. Were these girls his victims? Perhaps. But he was blind to this fact, just as he had been blind to her.
He was almost there, and he would have her again.