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Friday Out


by P.R. Mercado


Seeing her in black
with his arm around her
from the other side
of a glass door.
He gave her a beer.
She might've been thirsty,
uncomfortable.
He was there to make her feel ok. 
Why her?
I want to run her over. 
That won't fix anything, I know. 
But it will break her. 
I am a modest man: That is enough.
Why not me? 
I can make it look like an accident. 
I am so stupid 
if you give us enough time
it will probably be the result of an accident. 
I can make him happier.
At last I will try harder.
What are you looking for? 
I will look for it, too. 
When I find it, I will swallow it.
It and I will be the same. 
He must from time to time
search for it within my anatomy
using his body. 
I will enjoy that.
He gives her a kiss on the cheek,
and I can hear the fracturing of empty spaces. 
Suddenly, every pore in my body
is a bullet hole.
She has done nothing to me,
and for this I demand retribution. 
During these moments
I do not fear the temporality of my body.
I fear more than anything
the eternity of my soul.
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