The King

My narcissism presses a rust corroded knife to my throat,
Resting the most acrimonious point against the tender spot,
Between two white-winged collarbones,
It tells me to be conceited, to sacrifice the other and save myself,
I never much enjoyed the flavor of blood,
So I grope at the papery breasts in my pocket,
Clawing for the feminine skin of a scratchy green,
Then flick her at the clerk's face,
Her value wasn't worth over an one hundred anyways,
So I abandon her into avaricious hands,
The green paper erases many names, many identities,
And it saves my own into first place,
Then I stand waiting by the door for them to call,
My rank, my first place as others bleed on the floor,
I look impatiently at my watch, as humans howl,
Like desperate beasts in agony,
And I just wait, to hear the syllables, consonants, and vowels of my name,
Where I can step forth with my trophy,
Step recklessly over human bodies,
I crave my knife to be the first to ease away,
From the nefarious crevices of my neck,
But it burns harder and tighter around my throat,
And the burn was my pyrophoric blood,
A thin boned woman who'd been at the top,
There for hours upon timeless eras, she did,
I've taken her identity, I've consumed her name,
As  blood strangles down my neck, a red rope noose,
I, step forward, terrified for my life,
And walk over her body, like it is my bridge,
Crush her hand like a stepping stone under my foot,
The life swims thick out of her eyes and away,
Into some far off place, I know I'd have to battle the knife to see,
And as the noose thickens, puffing out my chest,
The knife digging, making my chin lift up high,
My heel stomps the woman's arm down,
Nurses thrashing, doctors seizing to fix her,
I, a human howls, like a desperate beast in agony,
That it is me, it is me who is hurt,
As I choke upon my own roaring red,
As they brand her with metal plates and whisk her ahead of me,
Taking my trophy, taking my place,
I fall to my knees, bleeding out on the floor,
The knife severing into that tender spot,
I reach up to clutch my throat as if it bursts like a red bomb,
For my fingers to find that there is no blood at all.

-anna sluder

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