My Pretty Prize -

I kill the princes that come for her. They hear her singing, all of her virginal yearning thick like maple syrup in her sweet voice. They ride closer on their horses, see her standing nude at her window. They drool as they eye the rosy nipples like beacons on her plump alabaster titties. They imagine themselves drowning in the golden waves of her obscenely long hair. They never see me creeping up from behind, my machete raised and gleaming. I love the popping sound of the machete slicing off their empty heads. I love the ruby geyser of blood and the roll of their heads across the yawning moss. They would take her if they could. I can't let them take her. Where would I be without my pretty prize?
Misti Rainwater-Lites