Vanilla Killer - trigger warning
Another shift ends. I'm dead on my feet.
Too shagged to even eat.
The word leads (inevitably) to you...
I slipped the timesheets from work today.
Another incident occurred...
Sweetie, please be there, and say you care.
I loved working alongside you today.
We work so well. We always do.
Although the unit's turned to hell.
I slipped the noose of guilt today...
Message me.
Text far into the dark tunnel of night.
I'm nursing white wine,
tipping the chalice of poison to your lips and mine.
Wrapped in my butterfly-beautiful blanket
fantasies of you spiral into butterfly-fragile flight.
Never Greener glows beside me, a hell-coal on the bedspread.
I lose myself like a flower pressed between pages and dream
of crash teams, resus, pagers bleeping, summoning you to me.
Your manly medic's hands...feeling them, feeling me.
Feeling my skin and breathing in
the vanilla perfume I mist myself in.
I'll never have children or marry
I'll never know what it's like to have a family
The night lights soon soothe them to sleep.
I emit Lucyferian light, the nightshade lamp
that will light your love - that spark in my days and nights of dark -
stealthily unveiling a frailer shade and shroud of night.
Named after dawn's vanilla light -
my parents' adored antidote to night,
their brightest morning star.
Their brand of love smothered the life-light in me.
Took the luminescence out of Lucy.
And now how they'll all be made to pay.
I am an awful person I pay every day for that
Aww the sweetness sleeping,
their moth-soft breaths flickering
as light and life are seeping...
Their little eyes are peeping
as I'm cooing and peek-a-booing.
Lullabies soon soothe them to sleep.
Baby L is a frail, pink-puckered flower,
mouth a sweet petal, neck a tender tulip.
Tiny fingers cling like a vine to mine.
My small hour hypoglycaemic hands may slip
a vial or a phial: sweet nectar of insulin.
My love, there will be nothing on file.
I AM EVIL I DID THIS
I don't deserve to live
In the midst of a long lonely night shift,
quiet and dark as the grave,
it's your love and attention I crave.
Sweetheart, please know this.
But why are the nicest guys always married? -
2.4 kids and a wife they'll never leave.
I'm lissom, lynx-lithe and twenty five -
an altogether better prospect and f**k.
Is it your fingers caressing my breasts I can feel?
Or is it their little mouth-petals nipping my nipples?
Oh the confusion and fusion of pleasure and pain.
And here it goes again...
Once more the slaughtering sea rushes in on me,
washing over me again and again.
It's become a drug of allure like you are,
like this crashing, crushing love.
I see scarlet waves foaming at their little lips,
wonder how I've arrived once more on this deadly shore...
I can't do this anymore
HELP ME
My soft-soled shoes creep quietly along the tiled floor
at this unholy hour, as I tiptoe in to deliver
my last-stand brand of care to these tiny soft-souled ones.
I'll be more than a mother. I'll smother them with love.
Angelic and perfect they are, doll-like in deathly repose.
Baby O has a face like a rose.
Sweetie, there is nothing on file.
Tenderly, tenderly I lean over the perspex prison
of this incubator, teary with throat-choking love.
Glance at the ward clock to note the time.
I can't remember if he's theirs or mine.
Gently, gently I touch syringe tip to skin flower-fair.
There's nothing more freeing than air...
I killed them
I don't know if I killed them
Maybe I did
It's Baby I's first anniversary
and I'm logging in on Facebook
because I'm there and I care
and I need to see
if my little one's parents remember
and care as much as me.
I sent them a condolence card,
it's hoarded and stored on my phone
and signed with love from Lucy.
I didn't do anything wrong. Now there's all this.
I only loved too much
and sent them to sleep with a kiss.
Copyright ©
Charlotte Puddifoot
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