He wants an angel.
A shiny, rosy cheeked thing that wears
a halo
but will trade it for flames
whenever and wherever he pleases.
He wants a place to
release.
To let go when the purple embers
stuck in the pit of his stomach
are consuming him instead.
He wants a brain.
He has his own but needs another.
A lump of pink he can
pour his poison into
drip
by
drip.
He wants a body to drain
with an IV meant to
take whatever he decides
the world owes him.
He wants power.
It doesn’t have to have a name
but
I guess he decided he liked
the way mine tasted on his tongue.
The acidic burn like lime each time
lips meet,
it fazed him none.
He wants a game.
A ragged round of cat and mouse
chased in concentric circles
until someone goes limp.
It’s never him.
Tell everyone you were left
with scars like silver etchings
on your insides.
Tell them how it hurt.
It’s exactly what you wanted.
Ali Kochik is a fourth-year English major with minors in Journalism and Women’s & Gender Studies. AK908461@wcupa.edu