Slippin & Trippin

Days get harder all the time. No Boom Boom, though. We're still here. Well, many of us are. The world ended for quite a few on this day and every day. I am still not able to post an image. Help me Womba!
Here's a prose poem for the ladies.

Shotgun Annie

Years before she bragged she could kill any man, Annie never flinched when her mother blistered her ass with an egg-turner. She hid in the under-sink cabinet & touched the blisters with dish washing liquid. Thick lemon goo stained her panties.

“I wouldn’t marry a man wouldn’t dive into broken glass,” Annie told her only friend. “I’m a spider. I’ll kill my mates.”

Daddy gave her a shotgun for sweet sixteen. He thought it'd bring her out. She found it wrapped in butcher’s paper under a dead cow. Annie wasn’t afraid of decaying hide, wasn’t afraid to get her hands bloody.

No one noticed her until it happened. People heard the shots & formed a crowd. A severed hand, blown away at the wrist, lay on the ground. Annie prodded the hand with the shotgun’s smoking barrels.