she kneels on the passenger seat,

clutching at a rosary of mardi-gras beads,

the gold paint peeling off in her sweating hands.

he's beside her, hat tilted low,

staring with glazed eyes at her chest

as it rises and falls; his hands relaxed on the

smooth leather steering wheel.


he's psychotic, licking blood off her

trembling lips as she stutters and blinks.

she's holding the knife in her hand like

she can't believe it happened, her mouth open

as she coughs, hacking rusty liquid

onto the silver cross around her neck.


she slumps over on the passanger seat,

clutching at a blood-drained throat,

his hand on her head a crown of thorns.

he's smiling vaguely, watching her slide

into oblivion. he should be killed next to her

but he gets away.


he stole her heart, hope, life.

but she's the crucified.