The Collector

He met her for dinner
At the most exclusive place
She wore a white dress
With a trim of black lace
Her hair curled all around
Nicely shaping her face
She had looked the part
To be in this place

He let her talk most
Sipping his wine
He chuckled at her jokes
'Til he lost track of time
He paid the check
They took a walk outside
Their eyes were bright
In the moonshine

He leaned in for a kiss
It was simple and sweet
Then it grew more passionate
The kiss became deep
They got a little closer
Her, on the tips of her feet
His hand on her head
In her hair, his fingers weaved

Then he held her hair tightly
And pulled her head back
Her eyes opened wide
And she let out a gasp
He kissed down her throat
She seemed to relax
Then he pulled out his knife
Slit her throat with one slash

She chocked on her screams
On her cries and her pleas
No sounds escaped
As he watched her bleed
No one else was around
So she was unseen
He fought against her struggles
Until she no longer breathed

He gazed upon the new corpse
Her white dress drenched in red
He thought she looked so beautiful
And was his, now that she's dead
He carried her quickly to his car
Covered her body and her head
He told her they were going to his house
If she were alive, this she would dread

Inside his house
There were others too
Two young dead girls
Their skin cold and slightly blue
They both had stained dresses
And blood drops on their shoes
They had dry slits on their necks
Forever unable to move

They were seated on a couch
Their eyes open wide
Frozen in fear
As if giving silent cries
The man, the collector
sees them as art, as a prize
claiming that things are more valuable
after the artist dies

He sets up his newly collected "doll"
Sits her on the couch upright
After she's put by his other two dolls
He looks at his collection with delight
Then the TV, which was but background noise
Said that someone had caught sight
Of a man carrying a bloody body to his car
And it gave the witness such a fright

They read and reported his license plate
By now they would be on their way
Sirens would sound, red and blue would flash
Then he'd never see the light of day
He decided not to run from them
With his collection is where he wanted to stay
He put on new clothes to look his best
When they came to take him away

He sat on the couch and heard sirens coming
He knew that he had to act fast
Looking at the dolls beside him
He smiled, took out his knife, and slashed
The blood trickled down, all over his shirt
His words of pain were blocked by the gash
The sirens soon faded and his heartbeat slowed
The last thing he saw was the red and blue flash

They found him as a fresh corpse
The breath had already left his chest
Though the three young girls had not been saved
They were glad his collecting was at rest
As they placed him in his body bag
A piece of paper fell out of his vest
Stating now that the artist, himself, was dead
His collection was now at its best