flashquake Poetry

WINTER
2002/2003

Four hours to kill until you came.

I strangled the first —
not without regret —
but in retrospect,
it was for the best.

The second I stabbed —
in self-defence, you understand —
the wait had nearly killed me.

I ate the third alive —
it was the perfect crime.
Sixty minutes swallowed
in less than five.

The fourth I shot — so what?
It's not as if it had long to live
anyway.

You came, rushed and flustered — no chance to bathe or eat or change...

I prayed that Time won't tell.