I Write Poetry

I killed dad in my dreams.

Made the skeletons in my closet into a Southern bone stew.
A corpse in the shadows,
a dozen roses -
six feet under the ground.

I'd wear a wedding dress
at a funeral,
and shower the coffin
with the petals of my bouquet.

And still,
a smudged thumb print,
a rare arch on vengeful fingertips.

The villain's signature "ha ha",

because it's just that funny.

For satisfaction,
and overdue apologies.
Without remorse,
or second thoughts.

Then I told myself -
condolences.

Condolences.

Condolences.

Condolences.