Anonymous

He leaves the house undercover,

with dark red lipstick on his lips,

but don’t mistake him for a lover;

from his sharp, yellow teeth, blood drips.

His face, pale white;

creamy, thick quite.

A scar on his neck,

covered as he carries his axe ,

I discourage that you check,

though barely anything it masks.

His eyeshadow, a dark blue.

And his shoes, big and red, it’s true.

Big over-arched eyebrows,

just likes he curves spines ,

his axe he throws;

his big red eyes,

glow as he smiles;

can see them for miles.

The silhouette he follows tonight,

no one can hear its alarms,

struggles with all its might,

now limb in his arms;

it’s parted in two,

all the way through.