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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required To the authorities, your hands may be clean...yet to those who matter most...to those looking up at you now with welled up eyes, your hands drip reddish black with my blood...the children catch a glimpse of your sly victor's smile...quickly you hide it behind a newly saddened facade, feigned and fabricated. The price of your happiness pales in comparison to it's cost, woman...you just don't know it yet... In this life and the next, I shall be your dark shadow...I shall haunt you without mercy. Though you won't see me, I will be there. I will be the cold breath on the back of your neck...the sense of impending doom that pushes down on you. When you hear a noise in a dark room, it will be me, crouching in the corner with claws out, watching you in your trepidation, whispering your vile name...I will be the chill crawling down your wretched spine...the catch in your throat when you can't breathe and I breathe anew... I will be all of these things for you, Rita...this is the least I can do to repay you. Tell the children what you will about their father...the painful truth will be reflected back to you every time you look into their confused, mournful eyes...when they stare off and you try to catch their tears, oblivious to the waves of sorrow inside. Your victory will become the wolf disrobed of the sheep's clothing. I will be the puppeteer of your remorseful conscience, as it wraps it's hands around your gargoyle throat and ever so slowly, takes your life. Though my thoughts became my fantasies, I never had your murderous resolve. Tell everyone, tell the children that you never wanted to keep them from me, that I could come by anytime, like you always said after months of painfully endured reality...no one will ever believe you. Everyone knows, Rita...especially the children. Pray for my words to unetch themselves from the forefront of your demented mind...still I will dangle them in the background. Our beautiful children, your little pawns, your poker chips with a pulse...will come to truly know their mother. So enjoy your foul, pyhrric victory...these six feet of cold earth matter not...the grasp I have on you now is surpassed only by my reach, and like an unwelcome guest at your door, I will be the puppeteer of your painfully reflective conscience...I will haunt you forever in the darkness.
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