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Blood on His Sleeve

By , weston, FL
Don't play this risqué game with me.
I am the champion.
This is MY game.
Go ahead and try to deceive my senses with acts similar to a gentleman's.
A witty joke. A charming smile. Eye contact so sharp it could cut through my tough skin. You have all the assets. All the gold tightly stowed away and locked in the palms of your strong hands. I feel your eyes watching me.
You stare focused, straight at me with those intense, wicked, steady eyes.
I can't help but feel drawn to you, even though I'm trying so very badly not to fall. Fall straight down, and crumble violently in your arms.
You laugh at rejection. You and your flawless figure, so used to the female swooning at the warm puddles of your own sweat. Puddles created by droplets dripping from your ego. You don't take no for an answer. You won't take no for an answer.
You know that you murder women with your presence.
You know perfectly well how long this homicide has been slaughtering.
I can see the arrogant, smug face you put on as you watch the blood of your helpless victims stain your shirt. You strut around the hallways with scarlet, dried blood that decorates your sleeves.
You have made this somewhat of a macabre trend. Wearing the blood from the pulverized hearts of your past lovers.
Some of us want to get massacred by your self-baring ego. They want their own vital, crimson fluid displayed on your clothing. They think it makes them desirable.
Worthwhile.
Acceptable.
But you don't see them as forsaken girls, handcuffed to the sex-related rules of this society. You look at their beautiful, virgin faces and only see more blood to exhibit. More innocent bodies to dispose of. More tears to neglect.
Now you are trying to win yet another game.
This cruel, perverted game where the prize is MY blood. I see your sly grin whispering to me and saying you will be victorious.
My sly grin says,
I beg to differ.



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