When I killed you and tore you apart
When I killed you and sliced out your heart
When I killed you and fried up the bits,
first I ate you, then went to defecate.
When I killed you because you were mean
and then cut off the fat from the lean
I fried up some portions just cuz I could
and then when I chewed you, you tasted quite delicious,
if I do say so myself.
I’m not bad in the chef department.
When I killed you to make my next meal,
I didn’t use poison; it has null appeal.
I opted for bludgeons and knifework instead
and didn’t let up until you were comatose.
and, soon after, expired. Slaughtered. Murdered.
When I killed you I had no regret
but some days have passed and now in my head
are feelings that weren’t considered before,
like: now that I’ve killed you, I can’t kill you anymore.