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It’s a dark alley,
The serial killer’s grip on his knife tightens.
Stay silent while you can,
whisper to yourself,
you know I’ll live in a torturous purgatory,
who kills me better,
who ends it rightly,
just don’t let me begin again.
His job is to avoid movements,
make no sounds,
it’s his weapon,
a tranquility in doing wrong,
but I don’t want to hate him,
his damage is what will set me unfettered.
A silence louder than bombs
louder than the outcry that tore my larynx
louder than me when I try to make you listen,
you said, instead,
not loud enough-
couldn’t hear me yet.
He’s waiting,
his night vision failing him
the fog blurring his sight,
it’s an unfortunate night,
indeed it is,
but he can hear me
he can hear me unlike you.
My feet are tired,
I must have walked past enough wooden houses,
but I won’t need to anymore,
I’ll be in mine,
and it’ll be it.
I’ll do it for you,
I’ll scream for you,
until I’ll accept what is mine,
but he’s done it for me.
He’s done it for me.

Take 142

I see him in silhouettes of
lonely men. Their veiny
hands and drooping shoulders.
When they look away
and close their eyes,
I see him
I see him
I see him in everything
faded, and a blur vision,
of once a memory,
a thought for the two
that is stumped by a clearer vision,
a picture with no faults like
it were captured after a million takes.
A picture where I stand in the frame
my idle hands desperate to touch
his companied ones.
He can’t see me,
He can’t see me no more.