by Tracy Davidson
The detective doesn’t understand. He thinks we’ll turn on each other. But our bond is too deep for that. It took a lifetime to find her, someone whose dark soul was a match for mine, someone equally thrilled at the sight and smell of blood, the sound of screaming.
Scarlet suits her. She wears entrails wrapped around her neck, like a feather boa, while we make love.
The detective still has his entrails. For now. His body untouched, more or less. He is my wedding gift to her. She will feast on his heart. And our unborn child will grow.
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.