To Make Hunter

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
How long does it take to be a hunter?

Submitted: February 12, 2013

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Submitted: February 12, 2013




To Make Hunter


Buoyant is the sound of her voice at the other end of the line

On the landline phone with a nobody, a nobody that I know not of

Indeed I am hearing every little lie she spills and dirt she intends to fill

She is oblivious to my action, to even listen to my breathing rhythm

As I am breathing ever so hardly with my mouth close to the mouth piece

The two parties are indeed oblivious to an important connection:

I am the house and the house is I


Her age consists of two digits, but it is more fitting as only one

Society likes to label her as a “teenager,” but I refuse

I refuse because she is mine and not its

A progeny I have control over, but for a period of time

I gradually am losing control as she succumbs to teenage life

Or, the Teenage Social Dogma, society prefers it

The kind of norms that only fuel suicide, bad popularity, and bad suicide

No, I choose not to think about it. There are more ways to die

Than there are stars in the universe

Teenagers are creative at taking their own lives


In my youth I was not part of this dogma

I was fierce in battle, strongly built in physique, and a will

The kind of will that even scared a wolf pack of hungry wolverines

They scurried away like cowards, only one remained

A bigger one, I reckon. A big meal that lasted a month

I did not use my hunter’s maneuver, no need

The big boy knew he had to give himself up

His will and power were not up to par, or perhaps no will at all


Someone, or nobody, to whom she is telling the little lies

Indeed, nobody, as one could tell from the voice

A male or female, it is hard to tell

I don’t care about her sexual preference

But now that I think about it, I care

And so I gain momentum and knock on the door


Pow! Pow! I feel ready to lift up the gore

I bust the door open, and she jolts like a thunderbolt

Perhaps even more dramatic, with a little extra zigzag

Her eyes twitch in all possible directions

As if a million souls are in ruin while screaming for light

She freezes and I disappear into another room

I return with a pocket knife and hand it to her

She is a weakling. A perfect candidate for the wild

She questions my intent. “To kill more in order to lose less from your own.”

She is 13, but to me still a one year old

It is not my fault to see the past as present and future

And so is not her fate to be made a hunter. 

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