The Minotaur

My eyes trace the path of my wet, red fingerprint,

studying the loops and the gaps,

a tiny maze: mine,

a question only I can answer.

The ninth year has come again.

I can hear his footsteps,

his slow, shaky breaths.

He is the only one left.

Soon, the blood will dry.

Death, sacrifice.

An impression of justice,

but not the thing itself.

When the slaughter ceases,

I will lay still

and pretend to rest,

waiting for the screams to begin again.

by Krystal Ursino Anderson