Hardwooded Obsession

Scrub, scrub, scrub—

all I ever do is scrub this blood.

I hate the mess, the splatter,

but God, I love

the moment their light flickers out,

the final gasp,

the desperate fight,

a knife sinking in deep.

Love doesn’t do it for me.

Not anymore.

But her—

oh, her I might.

Still, I can’t have her close,

not with my hands this red,

not with these floors so hard to clean.

I can’t hold her close,

can’t love her right.

They say a killer doesn’t feel,

but in my eyes—I might.

She’ll never want me

the way I want her.

I’d kill just to have her.