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By Patricia Mercado

I will shoot him in the forest

then, help me with his legs. Dump the body in the river

or leave it to rot in the cold.

That had been the plan, at least.

But what would we have done with the evidence?

               𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘻𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳,

               𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘰 𝘤𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘴,

               𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘱,

               𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘮 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵,

               𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺.

Everything he owned; I would have burned them all.

I would have stood there on the grass and set myself on fire.

And watch his fingerprints kneaded

throughout my skin, blazing like fiery purple plums.

Perhaps then, you can look me in the eyes and

tell me I’m clean.

Though the soul

cannot be cleansed. It is wrapped

around the bones, inseparable. Like the weight

of your body pressing onto mine. The taste of

petrol on your tongue, I’m praying.

𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘥.

                            𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶.


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