When I was 9 my pet chick died
And it was clear to me that I was a murderer

Everyone told me that
While I had killed something, honey, I wasn't a murderer
Something about accidents, something something intentions

But I knew how words work
Words mean what they mean
Regardless of whether you want them applied to you or not

I hadn't yet developed that gulf grown-ups have
That cavernous expanse between what they do and who they are

The first time that friendly canyon fractured open in my mind
And sucked up one of my bad actions before it could make me a bad person
I debated grabbing a shovel and filling its gaping mouth
Before the relief set in.