Killer

By Nicole Minton, University of Nevada, Las Vegas

CONTENT WARNING: Some mentions of gore

We’re halfway through the movie

and I start to think maybe, 

you’re the killer. 

Who knows, but isn’t it fun to guess?

There is something so comforting in the thought of being a closed case: 

my life boiled down to bullet points, relevant evidence of my existence 

tucked away in a box

collecting dust. 

This way, when I finally step back, I’d know which parts were the most

important. You say, 

it’s all notable, it all means something 

and I tell you that cannot be true. 

I’m jealous of the knowledge of those who met death-

I just can’t stand not knowing what is or isn’t there. 

This is the same reason I go into the basement

while the audience is screaming for me to turn around.

I chain myself like a dog to your porch and ask you to do your worst. 

Poke at my aging bruises. Stab at my weakest point. 

Coax out my Achille’s 

and slice it.

Look me in the eyes as it happens. Throw me in the deepest water. 

This is what we’ve been obsessed 

with for all these years. 

Do you feel exposed? He tells me, 

“only a little,”

and I wonder how you can feel 

anything 

without totalizing force.