She didn't lock her door that night.
It was her last mistake.
He crept into her studio
while she was not awake.

She'd spent all day with brush and paints
finishing a portrait.
Spying it, the killer sneered
and did not hesitate.

His knife flashed and then he slashed
the canvas into shreds.
Just as she woke to see his strokes,
he stepped up to her bed.

She whimpered as he yanked her hair,
and fiercely hacked her throat.
Blood sprayed the walls, the floor, his face
as he began to gloat.

"It's him you chose instead of me,
you cheatin' red-haired slut!"
Once more his gory blade did strike.
It opened up her gut.

"His bastard dies with you, my sweet.
He'll never know his son.
A cuckold's what he thought I was,
but he'll see who has won."

The killer left but not before
he smoked a thick cigar
and drank her booze to celebrate.
He left her door ajar.