Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Every son kills his father.

Get in the trunk, you bastard. I'm going to bury you.

Pistolwhipped into submission, watch the body, like a sack of sweet potatoes, rolled into a shallow grave. I can smell the loam, feel the stones. My tongue is black, swollen - I'm choking on my own rage.


The wolf and the corpse. Id and ego. Tonight I kill you.

A cigarette butt winds up with the body - Enough evidence to send cops in the right direction, if they ever get this far.

Which they want.

Because nobody will complain when you're gone.

Because everybody hates you.

You are the part of me that everybody hates.

or at least, the part that I hate.

You are my weakness. My vulnerability, my selfishness. My pettiness.

Grow up, rot away. Gunshot, shallow grave.


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