Transfixed

How kind of you to assume that from my dress
You know that I'm a girl and of good kind
How fitting that the persons you address
Do have these exact pronouns in their mind

How noble that you hold the door for me
And that you whistle gently when you gaze
And how appalled your face must trully be
When I confide in you my inner craze

I'll love the slaughter of my loins by you
And the destruction of my white-rose heart
When Cupid's arrows pierce right through
And I become some mere blood-stained art

And posters, then, might chance to write of me
Who will be dead, as death will offered be


--Or an homage to the crooked reassurance of the omniscient butcher

[GM]