when i was eleven
me and three of my friends
beat on a dead cat in the street
with sticks and metal poles
from fences.
it was December,
snow covering the pavement
but not the cat-
a black cat
with a white belly
and sections of its legs
made brown.
at the moments of impact
-
a strange feeling of emptiness
crawled up the stick
and into my arms;
it made me want to stop.
the others continued.
i watched
and became angry with them,
every blow to the cat
resounded in my head
and my skull felt rusty,
about to crack.
quiet squeals of air
sneaked from the cat's mouth.
they told me to go home.
dropping my favorite stick,
i walked away silently
so the others would not hear me.
i glanced back at them,
nervously,
but they did not see me go.
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