Four Poems of Violence and Revenge

Once More

Red
wicks into my mouth
moistening
dry skin
coppery hydration
spraying my face
as my hands lift the knife
up and let gravity take hold
once more
plunging the blade
into your chest

An hour ago
you stood in the doorway
I scuttled into the kitchen
for your dinner
the look on your face
told me that tonight
would once more
be hell

I would have let it play out
once more
if you hadn’t told me
about my sister
how you’d bruised her soft flesh
made her weep

As gravity took hold
and she hit the floor
plummeting into darkness
until the glaring white
of ambulances
of hospital lights
of surgery theaters
woke her once more
into a new reality
coated in
red

Slimed across her vision
my vision
your vision
red flows
as I plunge the knife down
just once more
baby
just once more

Engulfed in Flames

I found the fire in a library book.
A pencil sketch bookmarked between the pages.

It fluttered out as I read
in my mother’s favorite chair,
the faded blue one from the ‘60s,
absently rubbing the cardstock,
greasing it with oil from my skin.

I fell asleep there,
red flames licking along lines of graphite.

The sparks fell between the armrest and cushion,
catching on fabric and smoldering.
Devouring my body of fat and oil,
blackening my bones to charcoal.

Burning like a book thrown on a pyre.
Leaving behind charred layers and a film of greasy ash.

Bury it Deep

The ideal depth for burying a corpse is not six feet under. It’s three and a half feet. That’s the perfect depth for optimal decomposition. The body can rot and molder and enrich the soil while still remaining undisturbed by wildlife.

So, when I tell you that I buried what you did deep, know that I didn’t do it to benefit you.

No

I do not want it to decompose. To molder and rot. To enrich the soil.

I want it to remain fresh and whole.

To bury it in a cask filled with formaldehyde so that one day I can dig it up and shove it in your face and scream, “Look, you did this, look at it, look at what you’ve done.”

I’m under no illusions.

You will not accept the accusations or admit wrongdoing. You will look at the evidence of your sin and use your tongue to slather it with excuses.

And when you do, I will take my spade to the gravesite you bought for yourself – the one three states away from your hated mother and father – and I will dig and dig and dig, and when I am done, I will fit you into that cask of formaldehyde and sin.

And I will bury you deep.

Serving Suicide

Profile of a fourteen-year-old girl
Interests listed as diet, exercise, fashion, art, and
Scrolling
Scrolling
Scrolling

“Only amateurs cut their wrists like that.”
“Your funeral is the only time they’ll say, ‘I love you.’”
“I can’t believe bro really did it.”

Ambulances strobe bloody light
Across a platform meant for bookmarking recipes and
buying cute dresses
The algo serves her mom equal helpings of
chocolate chip cookies and guilt

“What I feed my five kids and counting!”
“How to make non-toxic cereal from scratch!”
“Detox from preservatives using our five-step program.”

Serving pressure to birth more kids
For the algo to chop up and arrange
Aesthetically
On a silver dish

“The ultimate childhood recipe.”
“How I trained my child to properly cut her wrists.”
“The only time she will ever say, ‘I love you.’”