I want to kill you.
They say I shouldn’t, that it would be wrong. I don’t believe them. They don’t understand. They’re part of the problem.
Maybe I would do it, if my ass wasn’t frozen to this bus stop’s metal bench. Maybe if the rain quit falling, I could see you clearer when you thrashed in pain from what I want to do to you. Then maybe, my smoke wouldn’t get wet.
The smell of tobacco disgusts me. You made me start smoking. Do you remember? You locked me in that room. It was a basement that smelled like a mausoleum. “Do it! Smoke it!” you yelled until your face turned red and spit spewed from your lips. I cringed and closed my eyes, hoping that you would leave me alone after the first time I threw up. But you didn’t, did you? “Smoke another.” So I did, until the pack was gone and the puke smell overpowered the nicotine wafting in the chamber.
“Bitch!” I tried to say, but my throat was raw from the bile moving the wrong way. “Bitch!” But no one heard because you slammed the basement door from the landing. I kicked and punched the wooden panel, hoping desperately to break the lock or put my foot through the center. It didn’t budge. My stomach growled. I needed water to wash away the acid. When I wasn’t ready for it, the door swung open and you threw another pack of cigarettes at me. “Bitch!”
I’d rather torture you.
They say I shouldn’t, that it would be wrong. I don’t believe them. They don’t understand. They’re part of the problem.
You’re perfume reeks of old woman crotch, full of urine because you never change that padded underwear. I’ve seen what you do. You ring out the piss in the toilet then pull your pants back up. You’re soiled and smell. “Change that damn thing,” I told you. You smacked my face with the back of your hand. I fell to the once-white tile. You kicked me in the gut and stepped on my neck while you rung your piss pad over my mouth. I couldn’t scream. It took three days for the welt to go away and a week to get that stench out of my hair. “Bitch!”
I want to disfigure you.
They say I shouldn’t, that it would be wrong. I don’t believe them. They don’t understand. They’re part of the problem.
Remember that time you wanted to be a real artist? You said you wanted to be the next Picasotte, or someone famous like that. He cut off his ear. You dreamed of grandeur and said I was your muse. My feet and hands lost feeling from the cables you tied around them. You said no one could see your masterpiece. I promised that they’ll never see the circlar burns and belt lashings on my back.
I want to love you.
They say I shouldn’t, that it would be wrong. I don’t believe them. They don’t understand. They’re part of the problem.
I feel comforted when you place the spit stained pillow case over my head at night and buckle the leather belt around my neck to keep it in place while I sleep. You were so kind to cut the nose holes. I can hear you with him. He screams your name. He snores loud. It helps me fall asleep.
I love to hate you.
They say I shouldn’t, that it would be wrong. I don’t believe them. They don’t understand. They’re part of the problem.
We buried you last week. I made you a promise before your last breath, with the moldy curtain I wrapped around your frail throat in a tub full of water. One day, I too will love my boy, the way you had loved me.