October 14, 2011
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The perfect square of his moustache
above his smiling face.
Mocking me.
Punching me.
Hurting me.
I want to
kill him,
hurt him,
for what he has done.
The picture on the wall.
It hangs on an angle.
I touch his black and white face softly
his skull coloured part in his hair.

I grab the picture
and throw it to the floor.
It makes a smashing thud.
And it reminds me of the thousands
of people
who died.

I step on him on the way out.

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