I dug my own grave
Bloodstains on my shirt, wounds on my face—
Yet, I clawed my way out alive.
I want to run, to disappear,
But I can’t help it—I need saving.
I plead for revenge,
Justice is what I seek,
Sanity rejects me,
No wonder this pain burns deeper than a third-degree wound.
They call this heaven compared to where I came from—
No, you’re wrong. I’ll prove you wrong.
This is hell compared to what you did to me.
No matter how much perfume you drown yourself in,
Your rotten soul reeks—exposing your lies.
Hypocrite. Insolent *****.
When will you ever learn?
You carry your own cross,
Yet you crucify everyone else.
What you show is just a mask,
A bitter facade wrapped in silk.
Your kiss—nothing but a sweetened lie.
I remember your voice,
That same chilling thrill to ****—
But no, you weren’t worth the bullet.
I traded good bread for unforgettable scars,
Spilled too many tears for a drunken past.
From the Chao Phraya to the London Bridge,
I vanished without a goodbye.
Yet, you chased me—like I was the predator.
I found solace in an abandoned place,
More shelter than a mansion ever was.
Locking eyes with my enemy,
I’d **** for that moment—
When the time is right.
Turned the yard into my office,
Planted trees to cloak my schemes.
Now we stand face to face—
I am that same woman,
Born twice.
Black and red can end well—
Like smoke in the rain.
Bodies six feet under make the finest fertilizer.
I was never the one to start trouble,
But a feisty ***** sure loves to talk.
Face to face,
I don’t flinch—
You do.
I lived with what I had,
You built your empire off the backs of others.
I wasted years for fleeting moments,
Only to break free from the chains of your embrace.
A silent witness—trapped in your office,
Waiting for the next thrill.
Snuck in when the world was asleep,
Found comfort in a bottle of pills—
The only thing worth dying for.
But that green gown you wear suits you well,
Wrapped in the very venom you spew.
Poison now flows through your veins,
Vomiting blood—feels like déjà vu, doesn’t it?
Look at me.
Look at what you did.
Shattered glass in expired red wine,
Burned identities, buried pasts.
****** is an underrated art—
And my patience has run thin.
A poem of warning
