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Wannabe Monster

Poetry & Prose | March 2, 2015

we manufactured manners so chilly, frostbite filled the marrow
yesterday’s sun rose gray in our lungs
each breath came in on a sharpened frigid sliver
old fondness blew bitterly on the exhale out
I knew he was there and I swear
I might have slaughtered the bastard after
could’ve snuffed him something monstrous and gone cheerily to bed
slept sweetly in the silence, dreamt of talons on a neck

I’ve been keeping my conscience rug-wrapped in the attic
been itching for excuses to blacken bruises or break a bone
there’s a mad imagined power in these fingertips alone
got a brain filled with downright diabolical

are these fingers more monster for their manicure
more hag or the claws of a savage
still twining the angry around and around and around
felting forgiveness and dregs of mercy into dark ratty fur

stay away is today’s canon
keep at bay for value of breath
if all this caution doesn’t kill your curiosity
I’ve got at least two free hands to finish your body myself