Fingers skimming the words as it thoroughly touches the display.
Night brewing like coffee as the aroma tests the black liquid.
Killer.
The carpet treated with a thick liquid that silences the truths and bubbles up like lies.
Rushing out of the inflicted skin as it drowns out any sound, the pain playing hide and seek with the player.
Teeth jiggling as the red liquid floods the foundation of the esophagus, choking the cries of help.
Regaining consciousnesses thaw your fear as the irony was burning your eyes.
Alone.
Is this why people kill?
To save, to have revenge, to have the satisfaction of the one's death on your hands?
For what?
For self-pity?
For the happiness that others took from you?
For the last laugh?
Hatred balls up like a fist and started to pound the insalubrious skin.
But like blood, it won't still forever.
It would go stale and crack.
And when that happens, the truth will come out.
I am going after you.
Repeating the ingredients like a recipe.
For revenge.
Killer.
YOU ARE READING
Out Of Order
PoetryPerturbed. Anxiety awaits those who can't distinguish between actions or emotions, therefore never implying what she thought was important. Animosity. Apart from her balancing on the tight rope, resentment tipped her over and down she goes. Deep int...
