Killer’s Keepers, Losers Dead

Lapping at a pool of blood
on all fours
like a dog,
I smell
a strange scent.
Raising my head
I feel
my watcher
and when I turn
he bares
black fangs.
I straddle the corpse
of my kill,
ready to defend her
from one more
too weak
to find
his own victims.
The smell of blood
lures them
from their
starvation comas
and they think
they can steal from me.
I finger my necklace,
my trophies,
six sets of
discolored fangs,
other would-be thieves.
I may be human
and mortal
but my girls
stay with me.

By Christopher Hivner

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