Spoiler
This poem isn't about the same backstabber in my other ones. It's actually about all the people that harassed me throughout my grammar school years and what I wanted to happen to them. And no, I'm not talking about them dieing! I'm talking about a social death, the thing they did to me. So many times have I wished for them to move or for me to disappear
I hold the knife now.
It's as sharp as your criticism,
And it gleams like your evil eyes.
Your life is now in my destructive hands.
You look up and beg.
Tears spill over your teasing face,
But there isn't a cruel smile on your gossiping lips.
Guilt strikes me,
I dropped the knife.
Instead of clattering to the ground it soars through the air on it's own will.
I cover my eyes as it pierces your black heart.
I refuse to see how karma is dealing with it's victim,
Because it wasn't long ago that I was the one being punctured.
But mine was by hand,
By your hand.
I hear the wet thud of your metaphorical corpse.
I peered through my fingers,
A gasp escapes from my tight lips.
I stare down at my hands as if to see your blood.
Surprisingly, my hands are as clean as they were before.
But that doesn't prevent me from running from the crime scene.
I watch as your friends plot their vengeance against me.
They think I killed you.
Even though your death was not by my hand.
I sit back from my life
I watch the drama die as quickly as you did,
And I help the peace stay in place.
That was all I wanted,
And that was all you couldn't give me,
And now your old social life is dead.
Don't look at me to help you,
You're still dead to me.
You always will be.
