I sit way at the back,
spend the school day
chiseling pentagrams in the desk,
jabbing dolls,
muttering curses under my breath.
The teacher never calls
my name for anything
and I don’t volunteer.
In fact, he’s afraid of making eye-contact
which suits me fine.
Besides, I’m after bigger game than him.
I haven’t bagged myself a teacher
since Mr Hopkins hung himself
back in the fourth grade.
My goal is four politicians,
three religious leaders
and a pop star by the time I graduate.
Spontaneous combustion,
toppling marble lion,
bat bite, bathtub drowning,
even something pseudo-self-inflicted
car in the garage, strychnine shots.
Creativity is nine tenths of black magic.
And unexpected heart-attacks are so passé.
Besides, natural causes racks up plenty of those.
And I wouldn’t want to mess around with that magic.
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