M’Lord, in vain do we debate;
this woman is a thief!
She enters her victims’ bones and settles there with no permission! she steals their most poignant whispers that get stifled and stuffed underneath the solemn promises they make to themselves
M’Lord, this woman is a liar!
She robs her victims off their little habits that persist unnoticed by all, so that she can spin universes around them, with her imagination as the center.
She is a fraud, this woman M’Lord!
She pretends to borrow the snorts of their laugh, the crinkle of their noses, the twitch of their ears and the goosebumps on their skin; and then she hides her loot beneath curves of ink!
What does she do with these crumbs of victims?
Prepostorous voodoo, if you ask me M’Lord. She devours her victims in a single sip of air, melts her victims in the furnances of her heart, lick them into shape with her coarse tongue; finally freezing them in the chill between her legs. She preys on the scent of their secrets, I tell you, and translates them into verbose verses.
LET THIS BLACK WIDOW BE SUBJECT TO PEOPLE’S JUSTICE, M’LORD!
what have you got to say, black widow?
are you black widow indeed?
who are you, black widow?
but. I.. I am only just a poet.