poetari-conamur:

Am I not merciful in the way a true god
A ‘good’ god could never be

People praise death when he kills
Like a proud parent
They host ceremonies riddled
with delicate flowers that smell sickly sweet
and solemn stories that fall like teeth

But when I do it
It’s a macaque
A bloodbath
A senseless killing spree
And now I’ve got crimson stains on my hands
And chips of bone beneath my nails

I just want to be praised for my work
Is that too much to ask?

– b.b.y. ‘i show mercy like a wolf shows teeth; savagely’