i think that water should be somehow recognized or classified
for its feelings and powerful properties
because when i cry
it most certainly cannot be merely a liquid
not with all the associated feelings
because tears can lead to hate
and hate is clearly strong
and tears can lead to death
and that is surely strong
so while you may think it strange
i am going to just take a moment
to appreciate water
because sometimes the big picture is just too obvious

(I’m mildly disappointed with how this turned out but oh well)
I simply watched as the murderer, known to be dead, crept alongside the alley wall, a gun ready in his hand.
The girl, the unsuspecting victim, the innocent prey, smiled sweetly to herself and took a big drink of that creamy dark brown coffee she always drank from the place down on Seventh Street and the wind blew and she smoothed out her skirt and checked the time, as if she was waiting for her own death to hurry along, because she had other things to do, like get back to her own place, for her young daughter waiting at home.
The murderer pulled his gun out, and even from across the street with the wind blowing and the trains in the distance I could hear his khaki pants rustle from the movement and I still wonder why the girl doesn’t notice but maybe she does and I keep watching.
And he turns to me quiet and casual-like, and winks right at me, and I know it’s me because there isn’t anyone else here and before I know it I’m taking a deep breath because I always hate this part.
She doesn’t even scream, just falls to the textured concrete. Her coffee flies from her pale, tiny hands that she used to stroke her baby girl’s hair and sew her dresses with and makes a long, creamy, dark brown streak across the sidewalk.
She looks so calm and it’s almost scary how much she looks like she’s just sleeping but then you see the red seep out from under her pretty white dress shirt and soak the fabric until it leaks across her thin arms and starts racing itself down the sloped road and you gasp and put your hand over your mouth in horror, except I don’t because I’ve seen this show too many times for it to shock me anymore.
And then the murderer turns to me once again and puts his finger over his lips, signaling for me to keep it a secret because he knows I couldn’t tell if I wanted, being so quiet and alone.
And then his black leather jacket starts to smear across my vision and his features twist and dance in the wind until thy become colorful wisps of dust in the air and then blow away, and then the girl blows away too, as does the entire scene, until I’m back in class with my head on my desk and light tears on my cheeks, because I know if I wasn’t so damned quiet then maybe she would be okay.

if you really wanted to live
don’t you think
ducking out of the way
of my well-aimed bullet
may have been sufficient?

but instead you just cocked your head at me
and took your glasses off
and set them on the rickety old drawer next to you
the one from the garage sale
as if their safety was more important then your own
and you could have someone pick them up later.

i almost wish i hadn’t shot that bullet
pulled the trigger
because now i can’t ask you
why you did that

I almost wish i hadn’t shot that bullet
Yet i do
because i’m a killer
and killers don’t care
So don’t look at me as i turn away
as i furrow my eyebrows
as i reload my gun,
and aim
once again.