There’s this small squishy thing laying in the centre of my kitchen table,
It’s vile and putrid and leaking out across the wood,
The hairs on the back of my neck erect, a shiver down my spine,
All I want to do is to scream at it!
I want to do things to it in anger,
Slice it,
Cut it,
Stab it,
It’s just laying there motionless and cold,
Is it alive? Can it feel pain?
I slowly lean closer to the table...
I want to test its limits with my curiosity,
Poke it,
Peirce it,
Squeeze it.
It squirms and screams loudly! Wriggling, pulsating, breathing in and out,
It’s gasping for air like its drowning!
This time my anger has turned to viciousness,
Rage has become my foundation.
I grab the kitchen knife on the counter! QUIK! NOW!
It juts and moves slower and whines with yet another scream!
Listen to the voice, I recognise that echo...
I look at it again like it’s an alien, I take time to look at it closer, I find cords trailing,
It had wrapped itself like ivy,
Not to the old wooden table,
Not to the floor,
But to me.