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Lovers
by Luther Moss
Let's commit a crime of passion.
Catch me in bed with another woman
and shoot me with the handgun
I bought you for our first anniversary.
I'll come back early from a trip
and follow him when he leaves our
home, waylaying him in a dark ally
with a tire iron or a piece of concrete.
When I'm to drunk too resist
tie me to the stove and set our
doublewide on fire. I will watch the
events of our short life together burn.
You'll deduce your best friend's
betrayal
and carefully poison her the next time the
two of you go out for coffee.
she was about to tell you everything.
We were always fighting and the
managers of the Chelsea are not at
all shocked to find one of us alive, one
of us dead, the room covered in blood.
Suicide Pacts Never Work Out.
I'll know you don't have the strength
to go through with it. I'll
end up perpetrating a murder.
It will be one of those things that
they never quite piece together.
Newspaper stories, a series of
approximate times and supposed events.
People will say they saw it coming
and shake their heads, impressed
at the damage a man can do
to a body with his bare hands.
