Spring Cleaning

Blood on my dress,
How tragic it is for couture,
When someone pays so very much,
And cannot wear it anymore.
The room’s a mess,
But that was to be expected,
One cannot kill in their own home,
Without curtains being affected.

I drop the gun,
It leaves dents in my hardwood floor,
I just paid for that yesterday,
Well, that’s just one more bloody chore.
He tried to run,
But he never did join that gym,
He never did a lot of things,
Never fixed the shelf, did you Tim?

He looks so smug,
The mirror doesn’t look like me,
Her hair is far too out of place,
Red lipstick smudged across her cheek.
Blood on my rug,
Tim always was a rude husband,
Designer fur, nine-hundred pounds,
He never was one to understand.

The mug is cracked,
He always was a slow drinker,
He had six sugars in his tea,
Not a sign of a great thinker.
I just attacked,
He probably didn’t see why,
It must have seemed out of the blue,
He didn’t have time to reply.

Oh dear, prison,
Now that is a horrible thought,
I’ll just tidy, I’m good at that,
Then I certainly won’t be caught.
One omission;
This kind of thing rarely ends well,
Yes I shot my husband’s face,
But that needn’t lead to a cell.

Specs: Gucci rimmed,
That should hide all of the bruises,
Tim never noticed my glasses,
Even for a man, he was useless.
I might miss him.
His laugh was quite infectious,
He smelt of peppermint and beer,
And he always called me precious.

I’m the villain,
Oh wow, now that is bloody rich,
As rich as my new countertops,
Chocolate brown; two thousand quid.
I’m the victim,
Of one more domestic abuse,
And now I’ll be punished for it,
Locked away from my Jimmy Choos.

Blood on my dress,
It was fresh on just this morning,
And it’s purple, cut at the knee;
Perfect for something like mourning.
The smell gets me,
I give the room some apple spray,
I suppose I best start cleaning,
He never helped me anyway.