#premeditated

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its easy to write off:

you never actually—

you know.

you never did it.

that’s what everyone says.

like I haven’t got the blood stains to scrub,

I’m tied up in knots about an imaginary rope.

I think people have the wrong idea of how it works.

I remember it vividly:

the transformation into a wild hunting animal.

—sure, it was for survival,

people tell me that too—

I was working up to the taste of blood.

when you have no choice but to kill

you grow a stomach for killing.

we don’t call all of them murders,

but there is always blood,

there are always two animals,

and at least one stops fighting.

I never finished growing that stomach,

that’s the difference.

it remains caged by the abandoned hunts.

there’s one I don’t have to imagine all that much:

—biting down on the windpipe,

holding a life in my mouth

in a threat to snuff it out—

releasing my jaw when the prey struggled

what I do believe in is letting go—

fuck, but the flood of relief when I let go.