The day I took a life.

The needle bleeds.

Pulsing arm reacts and screams.

I feel its numbness. A warm honey fills my mind.

The visions roll.

I see the end of life. Rejoice.

Slowth of thought. I smile at the initial memory of that night.

The golden tube. A tunnel formed of love.

Like sex which smiled, though substance danced.

I pricked myself. Though perhaps she’d stabbed my arm.

I cared no more. My slumber undermined her hot advance.

I slid towards the floor. My brain pulsated, a steady rhythmic drum within the party of my mind.

I could not dance. Nor stand erect as she applied herself to sensual play.

I laughed at her, though my lips curtailed themselves in still & forlorn sensation.

I stared at it. The needle which plagued my arm with pain. Or pleasure. Or maybe post-dramatic penalties of play.

I laughed again – within my skull – at the jest & wit of which I wrote.

The night passed by.

By early morning I had woke.

& dreams of sexual violence & naked ambition with the neighbour’s daughter had turned to peace.

I arose with eyes of sunken solitude. & smiled a weary sigh.

The girl beside me was alone & naked, her perfect body dead.

I kissed her lips & combed her hair, admired her slender form.

I withdrew the needle & wiped off blood, I placed within her hand.

& stumbled home my friends too quick, with secret never told.

That girl had died, my spirit too & thoughts were never shared.

& so tonight I tell the world, my lust for her had killed.

A dedication spent that night, high & sold to hell,

But silent death was her’s instead & never did she tell.

~ a night of needles & strange intoxication. Or was it just giving blood?

© ed simkins

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6 thoughts on “The day I took a life.

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