The Baby Slitter

Above the crib

A mobile droops

Sharp knives adorn its limbs.


Its blood-red lights

And pretty tune -

A lullaby of sin.


Switch it on,

Watch it whirl,

Razor-sharp and sleek.


And in the crib

A baby lies,

Fingers curled in sleep.


Its gurgles hush,

The mobile turns,

Slashes quick, and spins.


Skin is sliced,

An eye slips out -

The Baby Slitter grins.


February 2020



This poem was a long time in the making. It originally started in 2017 as a short story about a psychotic teenager who enjoyed killing babies and managed to get away with it because she was able to come off as all sweetness and light. She'd convinced investigators that a monsterous man was obsessed with her and was setting her up for the deaths, fabricating evidence to back this up. But then it became too dark, even for me, and I never finished it.


However, the title stuck in my head, so when I got an image of a mobile made of knives tinkling in a summer breeze, I knew what I had to do.



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