The Confession - 9/13

I ran through the brambles and nettle
Clamoring to get myself out --
Blood poured from me like a spout,
She screamed like a boiling tea kettle
Threw my survival in doubt;
I dove in my car, hit the pedal,
Thankful for this turnabout.

The jacket, meanwhile, was delighted,
Coiled ever tighter and snug --
Blood droplets staining the rug,
My imminent death expedited;
My car gave a sputter and chug --
If I couldn't get it ignited,
My grave would be as good as dug.

Bearing down, furious and frantic,
That face -- I won't ever forget...
By misery and pain beset,
Rage in her eyes hot, volcanic,
I shouted, "This isn't my debt!"
Fumbling the key in a panic,
Screaming, "I'm sorry, Collette!!"

She stopped in her tracks and stared, silent,
Then asked, "How do you know my name?"
As her eyes lit the dark in cold flame;
"This jacket -- this horrible tyrant --
Has roped my soul into its game,
It wants things so bloody and violent,
My body's been staked as its claim!"

"But you are its murderous henchman,"
She said, glaring me in the eyes,
"So this shouldn't be a surprise:
The jacket belongs in a dungeon --
And that means your grisly demise."
(Meanwhile, I throttled the engine,
And peeled out, toward the sunrise.)
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