Breadcrumb #315

MEENA ROLDAN

There’s nothing sweet in revenge.
It’s boiling blood. Insatiable thirst.
An incapacitating desire to decapitate,
it’s tongue-tied. Its limbs are tangled.
There’s no easy way to untie the mind
of this knot. It’s self-inflicting and monotonous.
I replay the confrontation in loops in my head.
Devising elaborate boobytraps, extravagant
disembowelments with rusted tools,
and words to kill. I want to erase the
perpetrator for fear of erasing myself-
Want to shove the drugs down his throat
in return and watch him squirm under
the discomforting ecstasy then slip into
almost OD- Want to watch his skin turn green.
But there’s no pleasure in that. It’s survival
instinct. If you’re still alive inside, the animal
who attacked you turned you savage.
Call it disproportionate. Call me sadistic.
Question his motives, and judge if my reaction
is equal. Call me masochistic. Call me broken.
Call me disillusioned with my gory imagination.
I’m not saying it’s pretty. Just necessary to move on.

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