And just for thought...
There is too much intensity lingering inside.
I see the vivid images of his demise.
I scream not.
I do not fear.
In my morbid way, I enjoy the blood that flows.
I anticipate seeing his glaze over like he made mine.
When he reaches out to me, when he begs,
I see him into Hell.
I clear the way.
The intensity lurking is nothing but hate.
Hate for him.
Death to him.
This hate, this horrible hate, makes it too real.
I feel his pleas vibrate through me
as I can still hear my own.
Is his end my resurrection?
He killed me slowly,
took my hand as if he cared and stole the light from my eye.
His end is not my justice.
I wonder what is.
At the end of the day, I'm just a girl who has been in love with writing her entire life. I am full of quirks, anxieties, fears, joys, laughter. And all I have wanted to do was give the world a smile.