someday they'll burn
the park bench this
little boy sits on,
it's red and shiny
like his lunchbox.
he scratches the glaze
with his tiny finger,
gummy beneath the nail,
smiling, he likes the
look of newness murdered,
giggles as he thinks
about the damage.
when the bench begins to rot,
it will start along the line
he drew while the others
played tag and drank juice,
he wonders what else
he can ruin forever
with a silent little scrape,
for his birthday
he asks for a pocketknife,
thinking about how much
he likes the glisten
of red in the sun,
and sticky hands
that change the future.
he makes a list
of the others that never
sat on his favorite bench
with him, he will tag them all.
Murder By Proxy
Crimson my hands
As I cradle the head
Of my best lieutenant
All it took
Was a little Cush
And a gentle push
To goad him,
Charge the killing ground
Where he crumpled
With n'er a sound
My anguish feigned
I'm such a liar
My boy shot dead
By "friendly" fire
Black my heart
As I cradle the head
Of my best lieutenant's
I twist the tale
Of his "murder by proxy"
How he died bravely
In bullets' hail.
To ease her grief
We drop some Oxy...
I lay her down
Where she submits
With n'er a sound
My murderous deed echoed in our little deaths. To steal his girl - I stole his breath.
In the afterglow
I pray his soul
...and I'd really like to avoid an eternity of awkwardness.
I can die with that
Can you believe it?
It just slipped in. I thought...I thought we were tougher. Risen from the ashes of ancestors that have seen a million suns dip beneath the horizon.
My skin, calloused and weathered by those years spent shielding myself from the harsh winds blowing from the western plains. I had imagined it as an armour. Yet how with such little force the blade eased in, reminding me of the early days when my feet disappeared into the heaps of black snow on the northern mountains. I would look down at my foot, a sunken spirit in the wasteland.
Now all that remains is the hilt that erupts from my chest. Red lava slithering down and pooling beneath me.
I manage to lift my head and gaze with bewildered awe at the mushroom clouds dotting the horizon. Peer down the rock face, stare at the broken body of the boy I killed. I caught him stealing from me. He tried to take all that I had left of her, the only thing I tried to save at the beginning when the white flashes filled my room.
I yelled. Grabbed.
The valley beneath absorbed the waves of sound that carried his last guttural scream, bounced them off mountain walls so that they should seep into my heart.
Then he stood before me, the Father. Lips curled, eyes wide. Hand flashed to the hip.
As my last sun darkens before me I am peaceful in the knowledge that I would have done the same as him.
I can die with that.
"And now, I kill you," shrieked the little girl, holding the tattered stuffed rabbit aloft. With the toy positioned high in the air, her hazel eyes widened as she surveyed the victim below-- a pink bear with a heart-shaped nose. A smile crept across her face as she let out an airy giggle. Then, in a swift, calculated swoop, she smashed the rabbit onto the bear, her halo of golden curls quivering at the violence.
"No, stop, help me!" she cried in the voice of the bear. "Don't kill me Mr. Carrot!"
"It's TOO LATE Pinky!" she said with gritted teeth, positioning the upper legs of Mr. Carrot around Pinky's throat. "You know what you did! And now you must pay."
Keeping Mr. Carrot on top of Pinky, she ground the toys into the floor, making a gurgling sound from her throat to imitate suffocation.
"What are you playing?" her mother asked suddenly, standing in the doorway to the girl's bedroom. Her arms were crossed and her brow was furrowed.
The girl stopped manipulating her toys and became silent. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet her mother's eyes.
"Murder," she said.
There was a time I didn't feel this way.
A time I woke up with a smile, everyday.
A time before they took my sister.
A time before my dad took himself, because he missed her.
The pilot didn't know her name when he dropped them.
But I'll scream her fucking name before I pop them.
It's taken me forty days and forty nights just to get here.
Now I'm all strapped with C4 and hiding a AK under my jacket, no fear.
And they're all off on their holidays with no clue.
No clue as to the murder I'm about to do.
To them and theirs, just like they did to mine.
Heaven bound, 72 virgins, tonight's headline.
I'll do it for the land I love and the land I left.
The broken buildings and the tear stained death.
I'll do it for a God I didn't believe in before the war.
I'll do it for the group who took my pain and showed the light behind the door.
And I'll do it for you, Dad.
That God knows how I miss you, bad.
But most of all, I'll do it for you, Sis.
They'll see the whites of my eyes, when I shoot, I won't miss.
The plan was simple: Set the school on fire. Save the guy. The "live-happily-ever-after" end.
Let me answer your questions. How old am I? Sixteen. Why am I literally playing-with-fire? Well... Am I crazy? Perhaps. Don't I see the danger? I do, and that's exactly why I planned it so.
He and I conversed during homeroom through Morse. His desk was behind mine, so it worked out well. Special messages were often carved on bits of chocolate, double-sided-tape and aluminum foil wrappers. It was cute.
But lately, he'd shut me out. Not a word. Not even a response to a "...---..." SOS message. And so it went on for months when I snapped. I needed him back at literally any cost.
It was perfect. The remote-control solar-powered car from the science-fair was set on the window by my desk. The weights from the physics-lab, placed perfectly to pull down the lighter on the key-chain, just long enough to light the oil-dipped newspaper that stuck out from the edge of my wooden desk. I had the classroom keys, being the class rep: doors sealed. Archery was right outside the window, two floor below. His chess club was two rooms away, and the only other member had quit the day before.
All I had to do was slip out of archery training and press one button. The rest would take care of itself.
And then, things went wrong.
The sirens flared up as expected. My plastic lighter was molten by now, so I was safe. I slipped in through the back staircase and beelined to the chess club.
This wasn't the plan.
The school was clearing out. The general panic was hardly a hindrance to my concentration. The smoke, however, was. I could hardly breathe. This was wrong. Plain wrong. He was supposed to be in the chess club, perhaps passed out. I was to come, first-aid, and make a quick exit, if necessary, through the window. I thought I'd covered all the worst case scenarios. I had to think fast.
I rushed to the store-room. The chess boards were to be returned there after practice. Empty. Sports room: Empty. Terrace: Empty.
After what seemed like forever, and what probably cost me much more, I realized the real worst case scenario. I ran back to my classroom in slow motion - my feet couldn't move any faster. My shoes were melting in the heat. My lungs were giving up. I thought I was done for. Yet, that would have been better:
The classroom door lay burning on the floor. There he was. His head on my desk. Eyes open. Absolutely still. Perhaps, in an alternate, fireproof universe, we'd laugh about his flaming hair.
All I saw now was the smoldering silver foil that lay beside him:
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- ( I love you)
My tears vaporized before they fell. I hardly felt the pain.
"I love you too, stupid! I've always loved you!"
Carolyn really feels like hibachi tonight, but I have already been to the best hibachi restaurant nearby, and it really lives up to the three-star rating on Yelp. It's not terrible, but the atmosphere could best be described as mundane, and the food is hardly photogenic. To put it on Instagram would be a crime.
"I really just want sushi," Carolyn yaps. "I heard there's this great place on Belmont."
"Where can I get the best sushi?" I ask Siri.
"Kill the bitch," Siri says.
I glance over to see if Carolyn heard, but she is busy checking her eyeliner and lipstick in the mirror. When I look down at the screen the words are gone. I hold down the button and bring the phone close to my face to whisper into the microphone, "I want to get some dinner."
"Go to the kitchen," says Siri. Carolyn glances at me from across the room as I step around the breakfast bar.
"What did your girlfriend recommend?" asks Carolyn.
"Don't be such a jealous cunt," I mutter.
"What?" she says.
I walk to the edge of the counter and look around.
"Your destination is on the right," says Siri.
I open the drawer to my right and wrap my hands around the inviting handle of a meat cleaver. The hairs on my arms stand up like rigid stalks when I see my chiseled features reflected in the cold steel.
"We don't always have to do what the phone tells us to, you know."
"Shut her up," says Siri.
I glance at my phone, then open up the camera app and hold it far enough away to take a selfie with the cleaver. My smile shows almost all of my perfect, gleaming teeth and my eyes look black and empty. It's perfect. I load it on the new social media accounts I created with the caption, "ABOUT TO CHOP UP MY GIRLFRIEND'S MELON. HA HA HA! #murder #amkillingit #yolo #nofilter" and post it.
The sound of Carolyn's heels on the wood floors echoes through my elegantly spacious apartment. I peer through the cutout of the kitchen and watch her settle into the chaise lounge to take a selfie. It will be a good ten minutes before she manages to find the camera angle that doesn't make her look too old or fat. She is only twenty-nine, but let's be honest, her face has definitely seen better days.
"What are you doing in there?" Carolyn wonders.
"Just getting directions," I answer as I step into the hallway.
Carolyn doesn't even look away from her phone when I reach the chaise and stare down at her from behind the armrest. She plays around with the settings of the photograph until it looks perfect as I raise the sharp blade above my head. Once she posts the image, I bring down the blade over and over again. As she stops screaming, I hear my phone notifications chime as people like my latest post.
So much time spent
plotting against me.
Cursing my existence.
Stabbing myself in the back.
Digging my own grave.
Cutting myself to shreds.
Feeding failure with despair laced self-pity.
Replaying every foul comment to keep me exhausted and awake staring into the darkness.
Tossing treasures in the trash match-flicked torched unretrievable.
When not plotting
I was doing.
Stocking up pills.
Drunk driving on peach daiquiris and haldol.
Playing chicken with bridge railings and telephone poles.
Testing Exacto blades against my wrist delighting in blood bubbling up.
Holding my breath deep down in a claw-footed tub eyes open wide.
Screwing strangers up against a mall bar wall in the eighties
playing russian roulette hoping for sperm loaded with incurable bullets.
I did it.
Took the contents of three
newly filled psych meds
punched my hand through the glass back door
of a tiny house I had bought a week ago in an hour.
Dazed and bleeding
something in me
"I'm sick, very sick."
I woke up in a hospital bed
feeling like hell.
It nearly killed me.
But I did it.
I killed her.
Resurrected I left my bloody shroud
on the ER bed
and walked on into the light of life
Kill that girl
That spineless girl
The nerveless wavering, fragile girl
The girl who writes
From a heartsick place.
You know her, the one who thinks she's a victim
The girl who's mind doesn't stop
That same girl who doesn't trust
The girl, I'll slay!
I'll smother her,
that weak little bitch.
I'll cremate her body,
Reduced to a pile of ash.
A wild wind blows,
From the ashes,