Cuts

I like blood. It looks so royal. It comes out like an army of ants when I make a hole in the nest. I want it all to come out. I want the nest to die. I want the ants to run away. But they don't run. They fight for the nest, they try to fix the wall I poked a hole in. So I poke another hole. And another. And another.


I could do it. I could kill the nest. By cutting all the walls open. And if someone stops me from doing it, from killing the nest, I'll just try it again later. Later.



Now.

This poem is about: 
Me

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