Pat Bateman didn’t trust a bitch. My bard
American, my bible psychotic,
my prophet takes no slaves. His bed discards
its contents to a grave. Sluts are toxic.
Mine serves my psychosis, symbiosis —
her virgin sister triazolam. Gift
she opens for me like the rest, Christmas.
My bondage Barbie works the graveyard shift.
She uses bruises, 12 year plea. It’s life,
in cage, a cube, for me. Then video truth:
drugs drinks, her rapes with glee. Now, mother, wife,
a grade school volunteer despite film proof.
I end, a psycho, all alone the same.
A snitch/slave/wife bests master at his game.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Infernal Ink, Occulum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Faded Out, Paper and Ink Zine, Drunk Monkeys and many other publications. Her poetry dollhouse chapbook Pink Plastic House is available through Maverick Duck Press (maverickduckpress.com). Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.
Lonesome October Lit 