The Mimic

The corpse of what you killed in me

Has barely cooled,

Not fully stiffened,

Still drenched

In the acid of your saliva.

But you move fast,

Slithering through social waters

With the ease of stolen scales.

Flashing a beacon of light you only reflect

From the truely bright ones shining their beams

Into your cave.

You've already found a fluffy new rabbit to trap.

Maybe, like me, slightly hungry,

And a little tired from one too many winter nights,

And, like me, mistaking your false gleam

For a promise of spring.

I hope, when you speak your saccharine words,

She sees the shredded pulp of my wounds still stuck,

Rotting between your greedy teeth,

That she uses the slickness of my still-wet blood

To slip out of your bruising grip

And flee a similar fate.