Rhythmic breathing
Stirs the sheets -
A child rests.
Limp.
Blood-soaked rags
Stuffed 'neath
The bed
Whisper fresh
Atrocities.
A baby doll,
Clenched in a
Tiny fist, is
All
There is to hold;
Face smeared
With gore.
A minuscule
Movement distracts
The Beast -
The sounds of
Murder pause.
Resume.
The child must
Become a
Chameleon, blending
White and red,
White and red.
But the fear will
Still give her away.
Tiny breaths,
Tiny, tiny,
Eyes squeezed shut.
She doesn't see
It coming.
Somehow, it's
Better that way.