My wrists hurt, the handcuffs are too tight. 

A massive mirror attached to the wall;

Tucked into the corner, a camera,

Its red dot disappearing and appearing periodically,

Reminding me someone is always watching.

The room is cold.

The cuffs are cold.

The chair is cold.

This is not how you treat the police chief’s son!

My hands did nothing, pristine with innocence.

A man in a suit keeps leaving and entering the room.

I keep telling him the continuous locking of the door is irritating, 

But his mouth keeps spewing about the head they found in my fridge. 

It hadn’t decomposed all the way, its forehead full of warts, rosy red,

Filled with white puss. 

One of the warts already popped–it turned a dark green.

Its hair, thankfully, is still attached.

Some of her deep crusted yellow teeth have fallen off the blackened gums,

Her tongue elongated but frozen solid.

My button-up Versace shirt smells too much like her;

I should tell the maid to go to the cleaners after this.