written by

« Reload image

for Aileen Wuornos

Come now, do this, my soul! No secret murderearns renown; proclaim in people's eyesyour cruel and bloody skill. .- Medea

I painted a picture for Arlene, and wroteacross the moon and stars, pick a dream /any dream. longing here, for herconsultant fingers, an arcana of cardssplayed over my desolate body.empêomflex;chement, déplaisir, une lettre,une brune, la mort. she says shewishes she was a magician; she wouldget me out of here, keys sewed in herpalms, she would pull silver from myears, my mouth. she is my last chance,I asked her to help me, l need to changebefore I fall. I have killed seven men.each time, I flagged them down and I put themout of their misery. I would stand by thetopless bar, by the highway and smile and say,hello handsome. hello baby, could I geta lift? and kiss them, empty their pocketsand strip off their clothes. take it all off,I said, and shot them dead. Arlene, I wrote,you are way too kind / to get to know my kindof mind. but if you listen, I will tell youwhere it ended and I began.

Was there another Troy for her to burn?seven marks on the wall, seven shadows.I know that I left Troy, Michigan,behind me. but the men I grew upwith interface, brother stepfathergrandfather. my corner of the yellow housewas draped in pink chenille, a daisyclock, a baby doll that cried and cried.they would circle my bed, and I buried myselfunder the sheets, percale smooth, frayedfrom my teeth, my screams! suddenly, they,he pushed my hands behind my back and coveredmy mouth. I can't remember, the grass, the daisiesleave orange silt on my legs and the sky isblack. the sky, my mother, is a coldcompress and his tongue his pores his eyesare not there. nothing, but the pain andthat never goes away, I have to stop thepain. his low growl, the hair raised onhis neck, his brilliant teeth. they travel inpacks, picking her bones, fleece, muscle,she is lost and far from home and when she hearsthem in the wind she is afraid.I turned mean back then. listen you oldbastard if you ever touch me again, I'lltear you to pieces and eat your flesh. Iimagine a bloody trail, ear eyelid thighfoot that leads to the seashore. takinghis magic, my magic and I leave, with a dragon atmy heels and their voices, calling.

In Florida the living is easy. I pull onmy stockings dress and stiletto heels; Istand on the corners, where the palm treesare. their serrated leaves fringe yourpicture Arlene, and lizards hang on thewindowpanes, I said, do you feel lonely,or would you like some company? but itwasn't the work, it was their faces,destitute and barren. without her,I would have killed them sooner, earthlywords cannot describe how I felt abouther. beautiful Tyria, I cherish the night wemet at the Last Resort when she nailed my slipto the bar and we danced until we were breathless.why don't you do something, she said, if youcan't stand it any more, my hate was palpable,something between us. I know you can't understand,but the first time, seeing him crumpled beside me,I just fell in love.

I became careless and they found me. they combed myapartment and found glass cleaner, bullets,tattered neckties, but I never surrendered.and so, you found me here, in the last placeI'll ever live, in these pious touch me through the mesh and bars, andwonder at the danger. does your skin burn,on contact? I think you are enamoured ofmy history, you wear my death like pendantearrings and never ask, I lived in the forestonce, when I ran away. and dreamed below thepoplars, in the ferns and moss, it is there thatI perfected my cruel and bloody skill, and itis here I am devoted to the memory. you wantto save me, so I'm asking you. to slip in atnight and take my clothes. the shapeless grey dress,the embroidered numbers. to cover your face,and I will leave, as you, and drive away. you canhope and pray, as they strap you into the electricchair, but I will be gone. long gone, as thesmoke plumes from your temples and your eyes bakeunder their metal vices. I will be cruising,slowly along the highway, smiling at your grief,your error. I never cared, Arlene, and I never will;I'm strange that way.

© Crosbie Lynn