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.
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.”
After all it must be just as sour – as mine.”
Confessions to be continued