I was six or seven, mother ,
when I tried to kill your sister
I would have resulted on some
serious harm on her part
if grandma hadn’t found us
when she did,
me running after the lady
with a bed post you say
that was twice my size ,
taller and mightier
in every way.

We all laugh about it,
things we say and do
in our childhood, we play,
we try to kill and maim
our sisters and brothers,
Reclaim dead languages
for sport

Why would you call us
I would say the world
was just as terrible in
spirit with your bones
as it was once with mine
As a child, I was as old
and slippery as you are now.
Old, that’s not quite the word,
We suffer, we suffer well
With pain that appear in patterns
of undissolved nebulae
waiting to be understood.

Old lizards,
you lost your tails
for nothing

I remember being eleven
and wanting to die.
Unresolved traumas,
Clever tantric expressions,
It wasn’t a feeling a
little boy should have.

There was a toy that never did
what it was supposed to do,
was it dead… it was, it was…
I was eleven and I wanted to die
in kinship with the broken thing
I stowed behind the staircase
I did not want them
to discover that I destroyed
something so lovingly given,
I hid it well, I lost it somewhere
I’d say,
I made you search for it for hours,
it was the vertigo of loss,
I would not take
You never did find it,
your child’s death towed
somewhere under the stairs.

Toy, it was a toy,
the world was happening,
it was happening in me
as I held the lifeless body
of the dead plastic boy
in my arms before
abandoning it forever,
to never play, to forget,

it did not do
what it was supposed to do
In my head I killed
him, more a lover
than friend…

When I think about it , I
must have been younger,
an eleven year old would
never take a toy for a
I must have been younger,
much younger.
I must have been younger still,
when I tried to kill your sister,
or perhaps not.
I was six or seven when
I chased your sister down the hall
and she hid behind the stairs,
her legs could not take it anymore.

she would later say,
“your child is evil”,
“he gets it from his

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We, The Cognitive Quotient, are a collaborative family of litterateurs, poets, storytellers and budding authors. In this world of compulsions and norms, we strive to build a community where ‘literariness’ is our colour and ‘freedom of speech’ is our right. Peep in and have the pleasure to plunge into the depths of consciousness and art, colour the world in your own perceptual mysticism, and join a community of creative and passionate followers! We feel, we write, we publish! This is a small step of our own to make this world a better and colorful place to live in through our artistry.