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.

Killed.

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.