Vengeance

He tripped me, kicked me. I cowered at his approaching foot falls.
He hit me, pushed me, taunted me with obscene gestures.
He mocked me with foul, poisonous slurs that, years later, ring in my ears like tinnitus.
So I cut off his feet. I cut off his arms, finger by finger, wrist, elbow. I cut out his tongue.
He killed my childhood. So I killed him. And, in a way, that’s his fault.
Revenge, long plotted, polished, perfected– at last, mine.
I thought it would feel better, somehow.
All my life, planning vengeance.
But what will I do now?