Her Poker Face

Dyer-Bolique drags the pickled remains to the alter,
And carves the marinaded meat,
Without hesitation, without consideration,
Frozen in the realms of a psychopath.

Observing, an internal alarm creeps over my mind,
Tarnished by his researched request,
So alike in thought and deed that he anticipated my every move,
And forced the Blackjack into my shaking palm.

Tender slices fall from nostalgia’s thundery storm,
Bagged and stored in ice, as the remains catch fire,
Fuel and food, such hollow words from my own being.
Dyer-Bolique in name, diabolique in nature.

Our abode heats up furiously, fueled by his anhedonia,
Trapped like a rabbit forced between the headlights,
I acquiesce in deed, though my mind cries from its depths.
The call is made, my brother comes.

Jon, the younger cherub, in youth under my protection,
Unable to envisage any harm upon him, his big sister.
I see the child engaging me through adult eyes, pleased.
Small talk persists as HE looks on, growing ever impatient.

At length, caught in my own trap, I lead him into the abyss,
The sickle awaits, lurching on the shelves, just as Dyer-Bolique planned.

Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
A slit to the throat, gaping wound,
His head tips back, cries stifled,
Blood pours relentlessly,
Guilt enshrouds.

Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
The child, not the man, adoring,
Unable to comprehend,
Unaware of my ego,
Guilt enshrouds.

Dyer-Bolique redirects my dear brother, quick decoy,
And surreptitiously forces the sickle in my hand.
Dyer-Bolique smirks with utmost cruelty,
Aroused by owning the winning hand.

Ice flows through my veins, and steams,
Conflict causes a quivering,
Sickle drops,
He wins.