Necrophile's Hand-Me-Down

The murder-toy is rotting downstairs.
His triumph is wasting away.
Does she have nothing left to give, or did he take it all?
Contagion through petechial spread is the carnival within.

The best rot will be mine. No faint scent, but the real Chicago goody goody.
He doesn’t get to have her
Alone and safe the way I have time and place.
The truth is he got so little of what she can become and will be.
All that was and is leads to this.

He gave up early without imagination or patience.
Boys like him can’t wait for anything.

Her eyes are flat and cloudy with potential,
Inhuman opal as lips pull back to fangs.
She’s so close now. She is becoming.

Soundless heart mutes out cacophony decay,
But I know how to listen.

Time only matters to her.
And the replacement train is always on the way.