Maneater By Man
Published in Malefaction - Femme Fatale
He spoke to a woman, once, I believe it was his mother.
Stepping over the bar on the floor, he spews
another deathfantasy, inky fingers and squid brain,
Chekov's gun of a blonde; made to be used,
an inevitability of—well, electrons forced through tired synapse,
fire! Crime made by crime, the blonde sits alone
in the bar, motionless. "Aren't all women just waiting
for us?" he types into Reddit, before closing the lid,
and going to bed, alone.