So 

you think

you want

to be a killer,

tearing out hearts in exchange for souls

leaving a pile of bodies

that were never good enough for their own

expectations anyway but

hell what do you care;

you devour insecurities in the hopes of blotting out your own

so —

you think

you want

to be a killer,

tear stained pillow cases your signature

adolescent heartbreak your trophies

and self loathing 

the trail you left behind when you fled

through their bedroom windows

you think 

you want

to kill,

but the way you break open women

will be the way your

home is invaded by the stigmas of a society

that endorses it.

The way you weave deceit

a spider among flies

will be the chaos that enters your life

when your some day daughter

with stars in her eyes the shape of tear drops

looks at you betrayed

and misled

when she discovers that her sex

can be violated by the likes of someone like you,

someone so similar to her own father.

Prey begets predator

and she will revolve around wolves

the same way you sniff out sheep,

and the rage that will rise up in you

will be as hypocritical

as the fact that you kiss your mother’s cheek

on your way out of the door

You think.

You want.

to kill?—

The way your someday daughter

will hold herself

will remind you of too many

Friday nights

and just the right amount of booze

and you will sweat

Guilt rising up in your throat

like the nails

that clawed at your back

when you didn’t stop fast enough

and

you think

you want

to kill?

Don’t be naive.

Those dead girls have been 

tearing away at you from the moment

they breathed their last breath

and they will whisper

in the ears of your someday daughter

when you give her the very same last smile

they ever saw.

And she will sniff you out,

prey scenting the danger

the nervousness she feels

an adaptation created by hundreds of years

of survival

and she

will run.