Disposal

Disposal


I know the world of whores, tired and dreary, though far from my dreadful habitation.
Prowling men, hunters of prey for a different hunger, a fantasy of the loins
that consumes some like a kind of desperation, or so they seem.
They mistake me for prey.
Something in my stature, façade of innocence, aloneness, attracts.
There are warm, dark, furtive rooms in the offing, cash, an easy mark in privacy.
We are safely locked inside his hideaway.
So simple to jump and take hold, my legs around his waist, my arms holding him close,
to give a little love bite of anticipation.  Small, sharp, needlelike, I penetrate.
He falls into a swoon, into unknowing sleep.
Perhaps we are both satisfied, for now.
But before sunrise I must attend to disposal.
Burning would evidence too much stench, as would leaving the remains to rot.
He has a strong, sharp knife for defense on a leg-sheathe.
Obviously, he had believed no need to be readily armed against me, fooled by
my slight form, unaware of supernatural strength.
That strength, his knife, operating in his bathroom tub to contain bloodless gore.
I wrap the hunks in random paper, rags torn from his clothing.
Before I can rest, relax in this subterfuge won temporary sanctuary, I dispose of the trash.
I find an appropriate travel bag among his belongings.
I find his key and cash.
Fed and flush, I go out to the emptiness of darkest before dawn to distribute free meals.
I scatter fresh flesh bounty in places I have found favored by nature’s scavengers while
hidden to the human eye.
Back to claim my prize, inside before sunlight, I feel a kind of freedom.  The kind that
haunted creatures feel alone with our ghosts.
I don’t sleep; but I curl beneath the bedclothes and indulge my dreams.