It is eight o’clock, another warm summer night. The sliced moon glimpses its glory upon the warm earth, as I gaze out my light-less room. Dam. Another itch. I humor this itch, grazing my freshly cut nails against my hair covered flesh, its keen edge producing a dry sound upon my sweat dried skin. I close my eyes, relishing the sound, relishing its origin, relishing now why I have this itch. My inner self, my veins yearn for yet another adventure of blood as it carefully curls its way down a soft neck, leisurely dripping to the ground, drop by drop by savory drop, the cracked clay devouring the moisture, which it so thirsts for. I smile as I reminisce of romances when the lush red caresses the twin mounds impressed against pink, sleeveless, v-neck, cotton. As its hurry slows to take in every wayward strand and thread and fondle the coolness of night breezed fabric. Ever since my last, I have had not the privilege. And so, like a deprived soul addicted to the high, I distress to find myself a fix.

What is the recipe for a lady, a woman, a girl. A touch of coco butter with a gentle helping of pepper? Should ten heaping spoons of sugar and a bowl of attitude be mixed in? Remember to knead in a timer to determine mood, and coat with spice. Now do you have what you set of to? Or does it so seem so real that you rub your hands together in wonder. They are blessed with the curse of their own facts, amid pretty smiles, stringy tops and open shoes, failure lurks. Failure to foil the hands of death, or even the hands of mine if there be a difference.

Who is greater? The Most Wanted suspect whose coarse palms have thirteen times hugged throats, of now buried beings, while crusty fingernails, laden with soil, dig into soft tissue as color drains from once well toned cheeks to eyeballs swelling red then purple, and cerebral cells crying for oxygen as it is kept away; even as frail hands flay helplessly till no more remains even for thought? Or the calm unknown soul whose reputation is to little to afford him an uttered name; whose mind has failed to find greater pleasure than the piercing of tender skin with a glistening blade, so carefully even poetry’s beauty nay compare, bringing joy untouchable?

As my head slips into the blue clear, I open my eyes upon salty stabs. The murky bottom clears to reveal green stones swallowed by black sand. Completely still, the ocean tugs my body into motion. Seconds tick by while my lungs lay, waiting for a new supply. Fifteen seconds gone by and yet I float lifelessly. Five more splash by, but . . . I wonder, how does death feel. What is it like to die? My chest now suffers unsatisfied desires that must be met. I arch my neck back and gasp in the living gas, much welcomed. Again I founder. Eyes closed and weightless, thoughts journey to scenes from the television screen. I wonder how it feels to kill — to watch as another draws their terminal breath. I wonder.