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the killing

m*L*e

I stab at the final swig of blood
feel it grab it's way down my head
hiss at it scorching my feet
and reach for the knife and pour Dustin another.
I think of how my eyes are gouged
every time I let the tears laugh at me.
Then I cried down at my arms --
lying - dying in the glass of blood --
and think of how these were the arms
that should have killed Dustin.
But didn't. And I keep stabbing at
why I hurt in your hell, hurt in your blood.
I remember how you killed your way
through me. Dustin dyed for me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let Dustin watch me, and now you've
killed a hole through Dustin. I watched it.
Now I have to rid myself of the body,
and my knife is stabbing between the
blood in the blood nestled in my head.
But I have to kill more. The stabbing
doesn't last as long as Dustin does.

from the original poem
the burning

Janet Kuypers

I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.



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