I have him backed into the cabinet's corner
like a lamb to be slaughtered,
Sweat dripping like tears from his balding scalp.
The beads evaporating before they hit the ground
As I light this kitchen on fire.
My knife screeches against his marble countertop.
It's his turn to flinch,
His turn to squeal and beg and cry
Like a runty little piglet.
I, on the other hand,
feel like a shark,
and the caffeine is finally kicking in.
He has no time to yell, no time to apologize,
Blink and you'll miss the blade sink into his spluttering throat,
Blink again and you'll open your eyes
to the knife jutting from his throat like a
Shark fin.
It drips crimson
Iced Mocha, and
Vanilla Frappuccino, and
Carmel Latte, and
Cafe Macchiato
Every cup of coffee I brought to him when he was working late
(When I still was foolish enough to believe in love)
Only to pour it along with my hopes down the sewers
After watching him crawl into a broken woman's broken body.
My kitchen smells like a Starbucks massacre.
It's delicious.
YOU ARE READING
Lonely Thoughts
Poetry~technically, every day is leg day when you're running away from your problems~ ((alternatively titled: please enjoy my laughable poetry.))
