i was made of strangling things.
this body will not do;
it shows the madness too easily.
the face carves itself into mania
without a prompt, without a scream.
i hold its wrists in pincers, in my
blue-blood beak. the veins are
ugly things. cut them open,
i tell the body. cut them and bleed.
it knows there is no escape, no escape
from this bloody fucking life. take the easy way out and it will still be hard.
this body is a weak little thing.
i curse it for being so. coward, i whisper,
coward, you chose life.
it trembles. death is the brave way.
the mark of courage is a slit wrist, a gouged chest, a smile on a neck.
the body knows this. it yearns for release.
but you are brave for living, i tell it.
brave and weak. what is the path you have taken?
coward or fool? coward or fool?
it twitches and shudders. it is too
human a thing. they will take me
for a disease instead of the power i am.
the mother cries.
the mother holds the corpse.
i smile a bloody grimace as she tells the body her mistake.
