the perfect murder
©2006 by Jennifer Honeycutt. May not be reproduced without permission.
i’d use an icicle if i wanted to kill you —
which i don’t.
but if i did,
we’d take a trip to alaska or to canada
and i’d find a nice fat icicle
hanging from an eave,
frozen solid in the cold harsh glare
of the winter sun.
you’d probably be surprised if i killed you —
which i won’t —
but you shouldn’t be.
there are a million reasons for me to murder —
starting with the way you’ve always
held me down,
the same as if you kept me
physically chained to your body.
if i killed you — which i won’t —
i’d cut those chains and be gone so fast
i wouldn’t even hear your last breath.
the chains would coil at your sides,
cold and heavy,
just like your skin.
they’d leach out the last bit of warmth
in your body,
the last bit of hope in your eyes.
if i killed you — which i won’t —
the last thing you would see
is my eyes,
bent over you,
smiling over you,
watching as the blood
seeped out of your wound.
i’d feel your surprise,
and i’d bask in it,
revel in it like soaking in the sun.
i’d watch the icicle melt
and the water mix with your blood,
and i’d know that now you know
that i’m capable of killing you —
which, of course, i would never do.
