Burning Flesh

I killed a young child in the morning,
Its blood juicing out,
Faking spirals on the amber rug.
Some shredded skin hung
Like superstrings in the air,
Explanatory but not affecting a thing.
And my brow furrowed rarely,
My lips also faintly licking,
A miasma of emotion,
I guess,
Struck me as I looked at this wriggling little egg,
Comprehension just out of its reach.

It had done me some harm,
Hours previously,
In an incident involving some stewed apple.
Of course,
I didn’t appreciate that.
Of course,
Retribution had to come.
I would say though that I had come to admire my delivery.
It was sure and precise and beautiful –
And as I absorbed today’s results
I felt just a touch of emotion towards myself.

I threw the four year old on a log fire
Hoping to warm myself up
And the room quickly filled
With that heady odor that I found so intoxicating.
Burning flesh.
Everything’s going to be all right.

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