Killing

Killing, running, tripping, falling, getting up and running and killing again. All this killing and running. Where is it going? Whom is it killing? Who is running the killing? Why do we trip and fall and then get up and run and kill again? Who is in charge? Whose show is this? Who is whispering-paying-nodding-nudging-smiling? Are you? Whom are the guns for? If I step on your land, will you kill me? Are the guns to keep me in or out? Are you in or out? Do you need to keep me out because I am a memory of you that you would rather not see/hear/touch?

The wounded wound over and over, until nothing remains but the wound, festering, open, dripping. Child soldiers rape and kill their mothers and sisters, trained by former child soldiers, who raped and killed their mothers and sisters, trained by former child soldiers, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum ad nauseam ad delirium… Can there be no end? Broken bodies, broken chains, broken planet, broken laws, broken lives, broken promises. Wounds, breaks. When all is pus and blood, how does the healing come? How does one recognize the impulse?

It’s a buzzing in your ears, an internal itch that cannot be scratched, that explosive rage you feel all the time. That is the impulse. Can you hear it whispering to you? What does it want? Breathe into it, moan, scream if you have to. Curse all that has brought you here, then prostrate yourself and sob. Then sob more and scream. Don’t think you are cured. Don’t think that just because you’ve stopped dripping, you will never drip again. Don’t think that just because you are too weak to maim and kill right now, you will not ever again want to kill and maim. Sit with it, lean into the pain — it has been stuck inside you for a long time. It’s the only thing you can hold on to that is yours, that will not elude your grasp. Thank it. It’s not everything, but it is the only door that can take you to the rest of the story.

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