(Written in the letter D. Just for fun!)
D is for Dead
It seems Dexter was a dancer, not a doctor. He followed me into donut shops and dollar stores. He spied on me from ditches.
I found him disgusting and desperate.
I called for a deputy, but the department knew about Dexter. They said he wasn't dangerous, just determined.
Still I dodged and deceived him. I wrote Dear Dexter letters. It didn't matter. He played dreamy ditties in my driveway at high decibels.
He declared his love for me daily.
I was distressed. I was disturbed. I drank decaf.
"I don't love you," I disclosed.
"You're in denial," he declared.
One day I dreamed he was dead. How he died was debatable, but my DNA wasn't on the gun.
I told them I didn't do it, but the next thing I knew I was on death row in Dallas on Dateline.
I was defiant. I defended myself. Is this democracy? Where is my due process?
Afterwards, in a damp dungeon, I was depressed.
Then I heard a ding dong. It was my doorbell. I was disorientated.
I opened the door. It was a delivery from Dexter.
"Was it only a dream?"
A disturbing dream I decided. Maybe I was drugged!
Then I opened the letter. It contained a document, a damp detailed dissolve...
Dexter had ditched me. He was now devoted to Darla.
(c) 2022 Jan Darrow / photo: Pixabay
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