Murder

Contusions wire through my blood
like the tired screams of a child
from their cot
left to
rot,
too hot in such fury-filled daylight with
wide windows wafting wild wind.

Now everything's screaming in return,
child is bleeding on the floor,
there's the stench
I mentioned to
worker bees.
Though too late to take action. Accountability
avidly aches across arkward arms.

Three shot dead and mother survived.
A monstrousity of depressed flesh,
and what made her do it?
There was a stench from 
the cot, the rot
left by a father or
more a worker bee.
He was late
late for his date
with the new mistress,
myself it would seem.
My meek, mysterious muster maddened mother more manically
than I could have imagined. Though 
I could have warned
of a woman
scorned. Children
are so quick to pay.

As I
shook, shook, shook my own screaming, saddened soft spawn.
I should have known.

Children
are so quick to pay.