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All compasses are not

Age: 8ish -9
Tail to sibling tasked off to the butcher.
Era was spaced out, tailor made clothes,
even get to pick
the critter for culling.
Unhinged the chosen chicken,
headless yet alive, rummage
in purposed smallish corral.
Constriction in my heart
noggin on my neck in a tizzy.
Crumpled to the floor, oblivioned.
Vegetarian interred.

Age: Teenish
When
all compasses are not.
It’s an arrow
from my feral instinct
to your heart.
Exuberance with a smile
to self.
Such confidence that I know
I will make it stop.

After, I stare at the feathered
corpse.
The kill was the feast.
Drudgery: turning into a meal
for dad. Shouldn't devour that would absolve.
Quelling this snarl
melting of resolve,
molting of child with reddening flush.
Compulsive claws, canine
sharpening, these weren't
implants, inherited just baring et al.

Cerebral let down, cloak the rush,
convert into a rosary.
Purse the thrill.

As a child I cried but as I teen
I want to repeat.
Bead after bead I flick,
secret & silent ululation with no malevolence just
simple jubilation
I will never have anyone
guess,
I am the chick turned beast.
Lights out, ooze ti's dark.