It begins slowly. Carefully.
Creeping in like club bass through my sneakers.
I stare cautiously as,
Purple-blue transforms into pale-white,
A low-tide wave crawling patiently to shore.
The pounding quickens, a bustling customer late for work.
I see a finger twitch and shudder,
An eyeball shifts around underneath its opaque ziplock bag.
Lips part ever so slightly.
I can’t seem to find my breath in the abyss of my chest.
With my hands close I can feel warmth,
It rises from infinitesimal holes,
I can’t see or understand.
I can’t take it any more.
I wrap my hands around the neck,
They are a vice-grip necktie,
And I make damn sure to do a Full Windsor.
My face turns scarlet,
As every vein tries to jump ship from my hardened mug.
The throbbing finally rests,
Skin is painted violet,
Appendages are tamed,
Eyes lie their heads down for sleep,
Lips stand in cement,
The chill returns,
And I –
How many more times?
How many more tries?
I sigh because,
I’ve killed this man before.
I saw him standing opposite me in the reflection of a shattered mirror,
Grinning, like the sun over the desert,
He shifted back and forth,
And the noise grated my ears,
As his shoes stuck to and ripped from the sticky, beer-covered, floor.
And that’s where I killed this man,
On a moonless Tuesday night,
In the slimy bathroom of a dive bar in Burbank, California.