There is a line somewhere,
engraved on the skin of a book
on a shelf above me:
Thou shalt not kill.
I remember my mother reading
it to me. I had repeated it, again
and again. Until it was carved
into the crevice of my existence,
until its weight oozed from the
pores of my skin.
Thou shalt not kill.
I remember my grandmother\'s tears,
telling me more than her voice ever did
of how she grew up. The blood of
her past, which she desperately
claws at to remember. To grieve.
Her telling me:
Thou shalt not kill.
God is watching
as I pull the line from his book
and paste the 4 words on my skin
until they are my essence,
what I must never do.
I gulp and drown in the conscience
of knowing there is a knife behind me.
Thou shalt not kill.
But I did.