Bloody hand print
on an open door,
where she was dragged
unwillingly to her bedroom.
He had burst in the door,
grabbed her by her hair,
and pushed a knife
to her delicate throat.
Once tied naked
to her bed by her wrists,
he cut and sliced her,
in every inch he could find.
He used every fiber
of hate that he had
in his dirty body
to inflict her pain.
His hate of his own life.
His long for his own death.
His lust for a long needed fuck.
Her long blonde hair
smeared with red,
Her white delicate body
now chopped and bloody.
He had left her precious face
until lucky last.
And as he thrusted up inside her,
tears ran down her perfect complexion.
Pressing the knife
up against soft cheek,
a trickle of crimson water
flowed freely.
Then he threw the knife,
across the room,
into the wall,
so it stood on end.
He fucked her merciless,
for hours and hours,
not letting her unconsciousness take over
he made her live through it.
Come and blood
all over the white sheets,
her wrists tied with rope,
gnawed through to the bone.
After hours of her torture
he finished his work.
He had no reason to live
and so over to the knife.
Standing at the foot of the bed,
her eyes widening in fear and torture,
he held the knife to his own throat
and slit it across, ending his own pain.
So he fell to the floor,
Dead and satisfied.
And there he left her to be found,
Her long blonde hair
smeared with red,
and her wrists tied with rope,
gnawed through to the bone.
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