The Killer of Kindness
Somewhere out there is a murderer, who watches every single episode of forensic files, he has maps and pencil shaded graphs crafted neatly along the walls, and his hallway light switch is never turned off, but the rest of his place is black, and when the tiny cracks of light that glimmer and reflect across the dust that seem to snow straight up from the ground; consume him because he feels he is within the dust and all of things, not just living, but there, and he sees, more like stares, like stairs from the bottom to the top, he steps into the sun, and the babies love this one, with their eyes on him like a bitch in heat. All he has to say is hello, goodbye you mean nothing to me, run along with your tail between your legs, I laugh, at the thoughts she thinks, the poor little girl didn’t get her way… And they want to call me names, they say, “Little boy, you’re insane, along with all the other male lions who foam at the mouth, wishing laws didn’t exist so they could sing their teeth into my neck, suffocate me to death… I resist! I resist! Begging for mercy, you want me to fall completely apart of pieces, into your trends, ideas, and beliefs as if death was the end. I don’t judge the cattle that graze upon me, my sense of wrath is invisible, I have nothing against you, your secrets are yours, and not mine, I don’t want to fight you, or hurt you. I just want this mystery to stay mine, an understanding that connects my rubber band colored skin, stretching out my hands the distance between heaven and hell; The little kids call me the killer of kindness, and I call you the murderer.
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