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His hands,

Large and comforting.

Tendons and veins under his skin.

He's human,

And all the same, he's still not.

Two hands, five fingers each.


She loved holding them,

She loved when the fingers snaked under her dress,

And danced across her bare thighs.

He used to rub his jaw with those hands when he was frustrated.

But they're the hands of a killer.

Red blood,

Washed crimson under the skin.

She sat on the bed.


As he ran those hands under the water to get rid of the stains in the bathroom.

Who did he kill?

It was no farm animal.

Who did they show on the news?

His hair was dark brown, the color of wet wood,

And his eyes flashed green when he was angry,

Which happened often, it seemed.

The eyes of a killer.

Attractive. Beautiful.

A little yellow by the iris and blue when he was happy.

The devil was a liar too.

She'd never make it out alive.

Who did he kill?

Those hands choked the life out of someone.

Someone she knew.

Why wouldn't he tell her who?

Kisses were the same.

Dinner on the table.

The same routine.


He's a killer.

Food for the Dead PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now