Do you know what it’s like,
to be the hunted?
The pursued;
the object, the target,
the one stalked like wounded prey
as the lights turn off.
You never called off your
hunting parade.
You took advantage of your skill.
You moved on me;
a soundless shadow creeping
along the walls,
clutching fear and regret in your hands
as weapons to
take
me
down.
Brutal, savage beast you are;
only I can see those jagged teeth,
razor spikes contouring your spine,
as you grab me from behind.
The darkness colours you,
brings out more than daylight ever could.
It suits you, you and the coal and soot
you shed
in my bed.
Warm, sticky blood you open like a tap.
You rip and tear and
reap your rewards
after such a masterful ****
You left me wounded, dripping blood
like a grimy trail behind me.
Leaving me more vulnerable to
fresh attack
than ever before.
But there was something worse still;
more terrifying than any shot from your gun.
You left more than a scar, more than
a raw wound.
You left something behind that can’t be healed.
It becomes part of my being,
inserting itself into my body,
protruding it’s toxic spikes into
any future I have;
any future that might involve a lover,
any chance at companionship.
You battered me to a ****** pulp;
a ragged mess no one could ever
risk touching,
without the blood covering themselves too.
It would seep into the sheets between us lovers;
it would attack me quietly, viciously;
It would bring out the worst in me,
and every time I would be forced to save him.
Save him from myself.
Look at what you did to me,
foul, disgusting ghost you now are.
You’re the nightmare I hide.
You’re the burn on my skin I keep in the dark.
You’re the voice I try and drown in rapid
loves, fleeting desires.
You’re my brand. You’re the one who
decides my fate from now on.
You pillaged without consent.
You never even knew what you delivered
or what
you
stole.
The hunted.
That is what I am now.
The weak creature, struggling to
heal.
And I can never tell lovers what this
sad, lonely,
aching story means.
What I can offer gets buried in fear.
I can never voice the pain that
rips in waves,
icy and sickly
in my bloodstream.
I can’t voice the remorse,
or the loneliness I shall always greet,
before they flee,
the sound of receding footsteps they beat.