my blood is
on my hands,
in between my fingers,
in my fists that
clench, wanting to
wrap around the white
of your throat.

i've read about girls with
swanlike necks, never have
seen one, i'm going to start
with you. twist the malleable
flesh in my hands until
the arch is perfect.

my feet have no arches. on
hot days i left behind deep
black prints, an animal.
that wild feeling not wanting
to chomp on the iron bit i
hold carefully in my unvelvet mouth.

as a girl,
i never knew the perfume of
rage was blood.

wet and metallic, the salt clinging
to my lips. for so long it was my own,
turned loose, as if it had a mind of
its own, as if it knew better, as it
ran away from the body that held it.

the urge to kill, my shaking hands
twisting together in a way that
others classify as nervous.
are you anxious?
a trembling mouse at outward
appearances. eyes wet from
the supposed tears,
waiting for the vital mistake.

one day i will miscalculate. the blade
of a knife holds no joy for me now,
it contains. no more, no less. one day
somebody will miscalculate.

don't we all?