Thread: Memoirs of a Murder Hag [contains violence and some potentially disturbing content]

Memoirs of a Murder Hag
I recall an eve so long ago, that my skin would like to crawl;
through the minds of the dead who would lay at my feet, whilst before them
I would stand tall.
Begging and praying for mercy, while I grasped their lives in my hand;
how pathetic it was that they didn't know, to Hell, their souls would be damned.
With such deliverance I had inhaled their thoughts,
exhaling their desire to survive.
And though every one of them was dead, I had never felt so alive.

However, she was my exception; when I would carve my name into her skin.
And I was her inception; the romance had yet to begin.
But it pains me, to remember the blood that ran down her leg;
and it scares me, to think of the ways that my little whore could beg.

She could pray to you with her eyes, while she worshipped you on her knees;
and if you sliced her mouth open wide enough,
you could almost hear her pleas.
The Devil himself was aware, that she knew not what she would receive.
I myself had known better, for I was never one to believe.
And yet, when she miscarried the will to live, I said;
"Look at the blood, that which runs down your leg,
did I neglect to tell you the result, when a whore decides to beg?"

But the victims are all the same, wherever you may go...
You take the knife straight from your heart, and sit back to enjoy the show.
My murder whore would tell you that the blood was never free,
and it scares me to think of the things, that my little whore would see.

Those frost bitten eyes of hers were frigid and empty, I know.
For if you looked past her lack of faith, in me;
a romance was starting to grow.
Her relationship with the edge of my knife left little to be desired,
for I knew in the end, when I hacked off her head; my work had been inspired.
Inspired by her lack of soul and the respect she had achieved.
I was impressed by her independence, and with the things that she did best;
for when I felt that heart cease to beat; in peace my whore would rest.

I would like to just make a note on this piece, so that no one gets the wrong idea. This is one big metaphor for my anxiety disorder, and the "relationship" I seem to have with it. It's almost a fantasy on my part that one day I can end the life of my disorder, and regain full control of my life.