I am murderous.
I have been such, always.
I know the details of it
Lorca's swords cutting
through silks
Or flesh as it were.
Merely decrying it does not make it
"Not so."
All of the darlings you have taken
Shuttered them up like the coins
You marauded from your family's treasure chests.
You spent them, for what you wanted.
I hear their gasps in your nightly wheeze
The morning's avalanche of hoarsey coughs.
I know. I have done it myself.
Even to you, a lifetime ago.
I slit you from jowl to gut,
with my sharp toothed shears.
Like the pig you are
(though I didn't know that then)
I just wanted what I wanted
And I bloomed inside of the taking.
So don't slink past me pretending.
We both know well, the smell of blood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem