I have rehearsed it
a thousand times —
The perfect crime,
The getaway, the alibi.
I rifled through my chest,
Each cavern, every ravine,
For traces of fingerprints
And of guilt I have to leave behind.
I mirrored my soul
As I watched my conscience practice its silhouettes,
In the dark — slow and meticulous,
A confession whispered at night.
I smile at your closed eyes,
Let your ghost dance through the door,
Lit off that lantern,
May you wander, may you get lost.
I do not want my hands stained,
I do not want rain that tastes of iron —
Yet in every epilogue of my poetries,
I have already killed you with a thousand knives.
I will lose myself in the songs
And of the prose I leave like footprints,
And if only thoughts could kill —
Oh my! Then mine would be a quiet genocide.