What I want to say is hidden—your mind will not approve,
even if I laugh. Even if I love.
But stating something breaks the spell, so what should I do?
I’m afraid to say what I think.
What’s this poem, if I’m not honest with you?
There is one who has nothing
until killing makes the victim his.
The murderer knows the secret:
until murder, nothing is.
Nothing makes a child yours—not loving or naming.
When the child grows up, they are on their own.
But look what the genius murderer is claiming:
I want this! I want this!
“But this will never be yours,”
says the victim. The victim who vainly implores.