that if she was going to kill
someone
she'd stab them with an icicle.
a long hard
pointed icicle fallen from
the roof.
no fingerprints,
the weapon would melt
away, impossible to trace.
it would be the perfect
crime, she'd say, her finger
on her chin, pondering it.
i'd look at her and say.
who are you?
and she'd laugh in her
high pitched cackle,
a laugh one usually hears
only on halloween.
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