How could a hand, a hand that is mine,
Have achieved such a feat as this?
Impossible – yet here is the head, cut and quite dead,
Here is the head in my fist
How could a thought, a thought so grotesque,
Get into my dreary old head?
Absurd – yet here is the corpse, bloated of course,
Rather at home in my bed
How could a mind, as tired as mine,
Come up with such ghastly acts?
Unlikely – yet here lies the body, twisted and bloody,
That undoubtedly backs up the facts
How could a person, as timid as me,
Perform such a grisly deed?
It’s possible – I guess, for here on my dress,
Blood soaks down to my knees
How could a soul, a soul barely breathing,
Have the strength to see this all through?
Yes – mine would be free, with ease you see,
I was made this way by you
Written in 2006