I smashed her teeth against the concrete step
on those cute, but almost unusable balconies
at the Regal. We stayed there after Paris,
with Father, when we were both in denial.
Remember? Anyway, the little wraith grunted
when I grabbed the back of her skull and threw
her to the ground. She barely squealed when
my foot came down. The sound like a cheap toy
underfoot, then a slurping gag, her tiny throat
choking blood and bone. She never spoke back
again. Those new teeth cost me a weekend,
and don't think I didn't keep reminding her
that. She is inferior to us, love, they all are.
You can treat people anyway you like,
when you are beautiful it gets in the way
and people can't decide in the split second
it takes to command the moment. Father
was right. We are beautiful predators, the moon,
all her teeth, and all her mad blood whirring.
