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.