by Lise Colas
Killer Bunny Slippers
First of all, I want to smother you with a comfy cushion, in a torture scene draped in soft furnishings, my stealth enabled by my killer bunny slippers–a murder spree spurred on by novelty.
I want to assail you while shod in cuddly fleece, baring pointy felt teeth and my mouth waters at the prospect–while the ones on my feet, both open wide coming to get you, are crimson velour lined with white fluffy trim, blow-dried from a sweat shop floor–their invisible machine sewn stitches castigated by a cruel overseer.
No wait–I really want to see you done for, slumped in that cosy armchair, oiling the anti-macassar, your puncture wounds stigmata and afterwards I will creep away in cushioned silence, before the sirens start to wail and other muffled feet step inside, to measure you up.
You left without saying anything. I no longer feel your skin, only the chill breath of acclimatised air. The rest of me lies sunken in satin sheets on a heart-shaped bed which no longer revolves. I stare into the darkened mirror, the room’s tawdry theme faded, forgotten.
I am abandoned at the centre of it all, left to feed the machine. Your crisp notes laid out within reach–a row of rabbit-eared irises. Our love measured out per hour, accrued, accounted for desire, as deep as the layers in a luxury bento box with secret compartments that your wife cannot find.
You always bring your travel sponge and shampoo in a see-thru vanity case, zipped–entering this space with the buoyant steps of an astronaut, shedding your skin as easily as a snake. And I am the apple. As if we are to undergo a trial of physical chemistry, the purity of love yet untested, fired up, lethal enough to kill, decanted in capsule form, sent heavenwards. My panties strewn on the floor in a figure of eight, the symbol for infinity.
After my departure from the scene, the grim chamber maids will bustle in with their parody geisha hairdos, wrinkled hands in surgical gloves, to clean up our erotic mess. They will strip away the evidence of mutual gratification, spreading a fresh sheet underneath and at least one will mutter through her paper mask,
‘They don’t want to have babies these days.’
Lise Colas lives on the south coast of England and writes poetry and short fiction. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch Magazine. Her work has appeared in The Blue Hour, Tryst Literary, Black Poppy Review and Litro.