Your eyes track me, a hunter in the brush,
while your body hums with a magnetic, playful ease.
I pretend to be mesmerized.
Knowing the dark shape of your intentions,
I kept my quiet.
Even seated in that casual chair,
your posture is an invitation to the bed.
My assigned role is the blushing prey,
though you could never guess
you are simply my number five.
Your gaze held more desperation
than my approaching footsteps.
But as the distance closes,
the warmth of blood blooms at your neck.
That confident smile you offered moments ago
is now a thrill I keep for myself.
Your fingers twitch to bind my fragile wrist,
but your vitality bleeds out into me.
I smile.
Before another word can form on your lips,
the knife returns to your throat,
and your voice is permanently severed.
The blade goes to sleep in my grip,
innocent, as if nothing has occurred.
I drag a chair across the floor.
I sit before your ruin,
and wonder what drew me to you.
Was it the eyes? The face?
The flesh? The wealth?
It is a tragedy that I receive no answer.
The quiet knife grows restless in my hold once more.
Perhaps I will find my truth if I strike the spirit rather than the flesh.
And so, I go searching for your soul,
wherever it cowers in the dark of your chest.
