An ugly, black speck of longing
Raises its slimy, venomous hood.
She stares at it for a second in the dark.
"It needs to be crushed . Again."
The carcass of the the earlier ones
Lie rotting in the inside.
She wears a deodorant
To mask the stench of the inveterate putrefaction.
A pale arrogant one does the job for her.
At times a lingering melancholic one.
No one really notices the difference.
Often, when it gets unbearable,
She sits on the mound of her handiwork, inside
Taking in the macabre pleasure
That emanates from inflicting pain.