it tinged my ears every time he called my name–
my wrist in its cold, daunting fingers,
shaming my desire for its maim.
pinned above–
its bones gritting against mine
gaunt hollow marrow disguised as love
reaching for the sharpened knife,
the one i craft after every prayer,
praying its uselessness never dulls
for i can’t pretend to ignore its affair.
i see my target
one I’ve never trained for–
for its gore will be something i’ll adore with no remorse.
its blade spills black with no force;
dark, raven, glossy black oil.
love would never spill black but red;
crisp, bright, flushed, glowing red paint.
for which what i’ve done didn’t kill love.
the throat of love was never warm for me,
nor did it ever speak such loving passion, worship, and respect.
it uttered cravings, hunger, eros, and suspect–
lust tinged my ears every time he called my name.
i slit lust’s throat,
for this is the end of my death note.
Sophia Torres is a second-year master’s student at DePaul University studying sociology with a concentration in social research. Her research interests focus on prison writings and abolitionist work in the carceral system. She is excited to explore non-profit work this fall and continue volunteering with Aunt Mary’s Storybook, a non-profit organization helping incarcerated parents record themselves reading books for their children.