murderer.
i called you murderer
as you killed all the
songs of my childhood,
everything i had.
but you didn't mind.
and each time you
killed another one,
a lily died.
but you didn't mind.
you hung one by the neck,
and didn't tie it's
hands.
it struggled to live
and it broke my heart.
the other you disemboweled,
slowly, with relish,
and you threw back your head
and howled your wild laughter.
another you bled to death,
by chaining to a thorn tree
and the other starved to death
watching the food from
the place where you shackled him.
and when you were done,
you turned to me and asked
my hand in marriage,
with a genuine smile and
bloodstained teeth.
but this me has died twice
and the last life isn't
mine to give away.
your empty words cannot
resurrect my soul.
bring back the days before
these broken-string songs.
bring back the days before ashes
and sackcloth became fashion.
then will i live.
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