She liked to set things on fire. The final victim, a young poet, secret admirer.
He wrote her a poem on parchment, slipped it under her door.
roses are red, like
the polish on your nails, like
the blood in my veins—
my heart beats for you as I
muster the courage to say...
“I love you,” he finished. He couldn’t help it, had to invite himself in to see her reaction.
“Would you like to burn?” she asked.
His pulse quickened. “Yes!”
She crumpled the paper, stuffed it in his mouth, struck a match, watched him light with passion.
© Nortina Simmons