Pale Woman

Wearing black at night
only makes me stand out:
my light skin, smooth and clean,
glows under the moon's spotlight.

Perfume, glamour, plastic:
dead refuges of the living
to escape their rotting biology.
My flowing, golden hair
is a trick of funeral home dyes
and the body's refusal to quit.

A sharp-dressed man leers,
but children knock on my suite, instead.
The last sound they hear
is one they'll never find again.

My party is one of ghoulish thugs
and specters with no flair nor fun.
Still, it was good to wear seduction,
if only for a moment.