Today I killed a wasp. He was buzzing up a nuisance in my front window. So I armed myself with the only weapon near. A crooked fly swatter. My weapon of choice. I hit him a one a two a three the fourth time I yelled at the tiny insignificant thing. Damn, why won't you just die?! Suddenly I was the hunter he the prey. Yet I never got my full. His anta wagging lifeless as my five stroke was malice true a masterpiece of horror but I felt gentleness. Was I a monster? For murdering such a piny thing or were the tears burning in my eyes a raging pent up a thousand reasons why I feel too much even when I want to hate. His head sever. Obsolete to forget all. Stinger and nervous system aching to know breath. I couldn't smile I couldn't cry. But I felt warmth fleeing slow. Yet at that moment I felt unconditionally deserted and obsolete just like the wasp. Sitting in my recliner. Knowing my anger makes me feel like a different person. I don't recognize myself. I look in a mirror. Vacant stare. Only two people can to reach me. There my light in utter darkness. Yet like the wasp I want to fade into nothing. I want someone to love. To my stinger and make me put down my sword.