Abuse: a horror story.

Losing again.

After having sapped the breath out of me, you stored it in a glass mason jar,
you always thought you were so clever, didn’t you.
Maybe you were because I never could find it and died in the hallway.
Games, puzzles, mazes you’d try to find something,
anything to distract you from the boredom this life had become but these trifles would never suffice,
so you made a game out of me,
I’d become your Muse to say the least.
Buried my legs upside down in the backyard, fulfilling your hellish desires,
You’d cut off my arms and put them in place of the antlers of the deer head you shot just last week,
taunting me into retrieving them, reveling in my inability to do so.
They’d find fingernails undissolved in the porridge you cooked up
and my fingers pointing them toward our bedroom.
(Didn’t you tell them they must be “seeing things” to preserve their sanity?)
Into the bedroom where lay my naked torso propped on a pole
like the ones you see in a mall.
They put their heads on my shoulders, posed for pictures,
like one did behind cardboard cutouts on display during the fair.
Had I really been trodden on for so long to not be categorized human anymore?
Baby, you’ve played your games every morning since then,
made this house into a horror theme park.

But you never could find my soul.
So, when night came you locked yourself in the attic closet.
You knew very well that tonight it’d kill you.
My soul you could never find,
the one I hid in the attic closet.

We are Homicides,
psychotic animals coaxing poor human beings into our lives for slaughter.


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