I'm waiting
With a gun in one hand
Roses in the other one
I'm about to shoot
This illusion of us being equals
People who believe in their own lies
A different kind of breed, indeed.

I brought my hatchets with me
None of them are buried
They are more useful kept behind the door
Like a good luck charm
An assurance that the job will get done.

Genuine touch crumbles under my toes
Our chemistry is political
Your opinion is unwelcomed
Politely, tell me where to shove it
If not up your arse?

Pardon my hunger for blood
I haven't eaten in days
It seems as if I've never been hungry for love.

Too many secrets to keep
You all hang me in your kitchens
And leave me on that one unstable stool
To hold on for dear life
Just to make it clear
I'm not committing suicide.

Like a blacksmith of my own curse
I see, heaven is near
I feel it caressing my bones
How fast do you want it to come?
Do you want it to come at all?

Two hundred and six strokes
Repeatedly, gently, carefully
Like a brush on a canvas
I can't avoid getting subdued
But we all played with the fire
We shall all get burned.

Red roses and a corpse
I was never a demon
Just an unwelcomed ghost
I don't walk
I float
May I always be on my way to hell
May I never ever get there.

It's unavoidable
Reaching the point when one goes insane
Good thing
It will go unnoticed
Until I decide to bring out
A hatchet from behind the door.

Two hundred and six strokes
With the tip of the pen
It hurts to know
If you can't do it gently
You are going to break my bones.

© Juliet Jeyn