I am not so stupid as to think
that there are words I
can say
to neutralize your hatred.
I imagine my name
is a razor blade
against your tongue.
I imagine
the memory of my taste
induces your gag reflex.
That your skin crawls.
That, with eyes closed,
if you were to describe me,
I’d be rendered in black strokes
that resemble
the spiders trapped on my
sideboard.
That my face is an eyeless oval.
Gapped fangs.
My ears, sharp and canine, pricked
forward are
predatory.
My laugh, if it echoes in your mind:
Rabbits screaming, shattering windows.
My voice, just a memory of perpetual,
glass explosions.
The shards that collect
around your black boots,
are sets of jagged teeth that
circle
and chase your retreat.
You’ve extended far too much credit.
I cannot recognize
that my actions have consequences.
You’ve been charitable if, in your mind,
my role in the slow-clicking reel
of your memory
is “Villain”.
I’m not an organized murderer.
I leave prints on the sills of windows.
My feet are bare and, tracking blood,
print sloppy, pointing arrows.
There are keys jingling, a clicking lock
cylinder.
I look up into soft eyes,
mimic
his expressions.
You think you have caught me.
You think you can cost me.
Your tunnel vision, so bent on revenge,
never even considered that I
looked around this crime scene
and decided
that I wanted you to get out
alive.