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Poem

Waiting is the greatest pain, 
Though most of me remains slain; 
Legs propped up on iron heaters, 
In my mouth spins an egg beater- 

Roughly, duct tape holds it there, 
Wrapped around my crimson hair- 
Holding in the spinning end, 
Tearing so no one could mend. 

Will my torturer return? 
I cry to think of all I've learned. 
Even through the scars he burns, 
He says there's more for me to earn. 

Waiting, gurgling, and praying, 
Burning, yearning, burnt legs splaying, 
I can't conceive what could come after, 
I resort to insane laughter. 

Though I choke on blood and teeth, 
Through the smell of my burnt meat, 
I laugh harder, my mind flees 
Closer toward insanity. 

The deadbolt slides, I hear the door: 
Creaking, scratching on the floor, 
He walks through, I smell him now, 
Expensive cologne flows down. 

He leans in, I feel his breath, 
Then his hands upon my chest, 
He whispers one last sick goodbye, 
"You won't be the last to die."

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