You are the man who killed the fawn,

no—no don’t try to scoop up warm organs.

They’re warm. Pulsating.

Dirty.

Soiled by the Earth.

By the cracked leafs and guilty insects.

You must watch.

Watch as she bleeds out in front of you.

Soft baby brown fur with flecks of snowflaked innocence—stained by her own severed veins.

You must rot in your culpability.