Whispers they say,
Of what grows in the dark,
The feelings they conquer,
They all leave their mark.
So that night I decided,
I would cool the hot stud,
Put out his fires,
And spill all his blood.
Out of the closet,
Behind the façade,
Waiting in shadows,
Till he lets down his guard,
Into his bedroom,
Held down on the bed,
Biting his lip,
Till it starts to bleed red.
He’s confused why I hurt him,
Oh – the simple mind,
Basic, hot headed,
Practically blind.
Now I get rougher,
Binding his hands,
Up on the headboard,
Tightening the bands.
He looks excited,
He’s thinking ahead,
When really quite soon,
He’ll shudder with dread.
...Then out it comes…
The cold blade of steal,
Sharp, malicious,
Painfully real.
What’s this? He’s frightened?
The hot headed stud?
The point on his heart,
I want to draw blood.
The plea’s, the sorrow,
From the small shrinking man,
I’m a woman of power,
I’ll do what I can.
One last look,
And I thrust it in deep,
The blood on my hands,
A memory to keep.
He starts to whimper,
Dying, slow pace,
And I smile to remember,
His dying face.
With blood on my hands,
And all round my feet,
I think to myself,
That’ll teach him to cheat. |
