Nineteen years old with a .22 in his back pocket, heart burn on his mind, Caril Ann bickering in his hands, “Charlie, when are we going to finally settle down?”
“Caril Ann, we’ve been through this! I need quiet, I need to think!”
She said sorry, and squeezed his arm, he suddenly felt the urge to make love, but he held himself steady, he had some things to do, he had to spill some more blood.
On the outskirts of Nebraska there stood a little girl, it was me, I don’t know how, but it was me, and all I wanted to do was ask him why? He is within my mind some times, the ginger boy who thought he controlled the soil in which he bled on.
“Charlie, do you love me?” She touched his crotch, their breaths mixed in the dead of winter,
“Of course I do, haven’t I killed enough?”