Thy blood in my cup

And so she said to him one late night:

You know, I should have stabbed you when chance was there. 
You know, that one weekend in the kitchen when you told me to put the knife aside and I did not even know there was anything so close to my fingers? 
That was something like a chance. Wasn’t it?
Only I ever could have done it. 
Only I ever saw that ”thing” in your eyes…the worms in your brain told me that day. 
Sadly, my hands are occasionally so weak.
Nobody else knows you. 
To nobody else you have given yourself, shown yourself that way.
Yes, I know you call it ”obsession”. You feed from it, like a retro cow. Your death will implode, merely bound to explosion.

I never reached the bottom of a soul before.
This was it. This was your bottom.
Ironic how you were scared and yet if I ever turned my back to you on one of those nights I would have lost my life. 
You are such an eternal hypocrite!

They asked me the other day what it is like to have sex with a serial killer. 
Was it rough? And I replied in one of those non-excited voices: 
”No, it was loving when he was sober.”
I could have told your ex with a text I never liked doggy. It would have proved my innocence and made her the more of a slut.

And now I see this  raspberry juice that makes me feel like I drink your blood. 
After all it must be just as sour – as mine.

Confessions to be continued

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