Revenge

This body has become a tool of revenge,

a weapon pointed towards itself.

I write intimidation letters,

leaving them around the house—

in sock drawers,

in water glasses

all addressed to myself.

I write "fuck you's" and place them in coffee beans,

to find as I grind,

infusing black morning coffee

with extra bitterness.

Wasn't revenge supposed to taste sweet?

While sitting at the table,

I dip the spoon into the brew,

press it to the side of my neck—

long enough for metal to melt skin,

long enough for the burn to leave its mark,

another link upon my necklace of scars.

I sip the liquid before it’s ready,

so it strips away a few layers within my throat.

Revenge feels good, I force myself to remember

—an energy that needs to move through us.

The gods are always acting out retribution, I remind myself.

"Be like the gods," I tell myself,

"Be like the gods."

Balance the moral scales of humanity,

take yourself out—

but slowly, savor your suffering.

For lunch, I cut out my womb,

teaching it a lesson

for all the pain it has caused.

As I fry it up with garlic,

my mouth salivates,

thirsting for the flavor of female sorrow.

I walk around the garden, digesting myself.

I pull off fingernails and plant them in the soil,

offerings to the daisys I violenlitly plucked

without asking.

I watch the sunset and hear a whisper:

"Revenge is the amplification of destruction."

Guilt pulls at stomach again,

hungry to teach myself a lesson.

Sushi for dinner, I think—

sushi is all about balance,

an elegant way to deliver payback upon the past.

I cut off each lip for all the times they lied,

slice off each cheek

for the times it turned away from the suffering of others.

With the precision of a sushi master,

I rest the pieces of flesh over rice,

layering it with ginger

and a healthy dose of wasabi

to give my head an extra punch.