TRAGIC Poem: Never The Final Girl, by Morgan Wright

Please, don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface,
I wanna be in the sequel.
–Tatum Riley, Scream

I should’ve known I was dead meat the moment I let you fuck me. Everyone knows sluts spill their guts on sin-soaked sheets. Moonlit and lovesick, I let your calloused hands creep under my ivory nightgown’s lace trim, mouth ravaging my perfectly pink lips, leaving them swollen red. Each moan is a death sentence, each breath risks being the last. I imagine the camera cuts

right as you unhook my white satin bra, straps falling from shoulders like angel wings. A single pearl dangles from a gold chain gracing my neck like a halo as I fall into pillows. Wailing wind billows through bonedust curtains, convinces me the killer lurks outside between oak trees. It doesn’t warn me about the knife you’re holding behind your back as you thrust in-and-out, stabbing

through my purity. I only notice it’s my final scene when black swallows your iris, when your head tilts and your lips curl, when you tell me I haven’t been a very good girl. They’ll find me surrounded by carmine blossoms blooming from seeds you planted in my uterus. They’ll twist my story into a cautionary tale about what happens when the girl-next-door decides to be a whore.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest