In my twelve year old hand is a length of pipe
that I took from a corner of my dank cellar
that I’m swinging like a sword in my backyard
that whistles as it flies

I wish it was connecting with someone’s head
I wish it was cracking someone’s skull
I wish it was making a sick impact
I wish it was hurting Him

who needs His head cracked
who needs pain returned to Him
who dealt me some pain
who passed on too much of His own

Be glad I am twelve in this vision
Be glad I never took that pipe to His head
Be glad I’m old and held that murder inside me
Be glad I kept the fractures to myself

as I am glad that I am the last broken one
as I am glad that I did not become a breaker
as I am glad that I am alone in these later years
as I am glad to be without an heir