It started with a tub.
There is no body of water deeper
than the destruction you put me in,
yet I found myself suffocating
in its warm stillness.

It ended with a kitchen.
You were in a good mood when you came home.
Drunk, but not belligerent. 
Happy. Horny.
You embraced me from behind as I washed the dishes.
I felt safe again.

I don’t know what I did to make you angry.
I never really do.
But in a fraction of a second,
you went from kissing me to almost killing me.

You struck me to the floor with a force so powerful,
the world itself must’ve shook.
Blood spilled from my mouth as you looked down at me with anger residing in your eyes.

You pulled me up,
and in that moment I knew that if I fell to
the floor again,
I would remain there until a coroner came.
You left me no choice.

I grabbed a knife from the counter
and sent it straight into your side.
I saw the darkness drain from your pupils,
and felt the beauty in ending your life.

As I laid you down onto the tile,
I boasted sheer gratification.
It’s like you always used to say, babe:
“You made a monster out of me.”

Poet: Stefanie Parrott


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