If the killer gets your boyfriend, then at least that means your
boyfriend’s not the killer. The lonely panorama of your last
complete class photo, the faces scratched out hard by time of death.
Cheerleader with pom-poms soaked in blood is screaming in the
hallway, couple making out in empty classroom should’ve guessed
what happens, strung up in auditorium when curtains open for
class play. Don’t touch each other, teenagers, don’t trust anything
you’re told to do by text.
And final girl, no one can get out perfect. Your dead friends cropping up in
nightmares. Maybe if you’d paid him more attention. Maybe if you’d been
fucked-up from the onset none of this would’ve happened.
-- from Basement Gemini