• christine

The Blade

This is a trigger warning, as this poem is about a murderer and contains distressing imagery. I worked with murderers and various offenders when I was a Probation Officer. There are lots of different types of murderers but what holds true is that a knife is much more personal than a gun and it is this element which is portrayed here.



Up, down, up, down his hand rubbed caressingly

until his blade shone as it nestled in his warm grip.

He loved this moment, the preparation,

anticipation before the realisation,

that rich ecstatic moment, where everything came together.

The feel of the blade entering the flesh.

The thud as it penetrated, the rich red blood

as it oozed out, or sprayed with abandon

when an artery was hit and ejaculated its contents.

He could feel the tension in his body building

at the thought of what was to come.

He had picked the person he would baptise

in their own blood.

He anticipated the flesh, the texture, the smoothness,

the warmth that would soon cool.

He raised his blade to his lips and kissed it gratefully,

this wonderful weapon that brought him so much pleasure.

The time was ripe, his foot jerking rhythmically with impatience

then he heard the sound of heels tapping their way towards him.

It was her. He could see the moonlight glinting on her hair,

he visualised the pillar box red lipstick she always wore.

The colour of her blood he thought, as his mouth watered.

Now.

His arm raised came down in a slashing motion

ripping through her jacket and into her chest.

He glimpsed her eyes wide in shock

as she crumpled at his feet.

He knelt savouring the moment, as he cut, and cut, and cut.

He stared into her eyes watching them film over

whilst, the blood pooled darkly beneath her.

He wiped his blade tenderly on her jacket

and licked his fingers, tasting the blood, her blood,

savouring the metallic flavour that lingered in his mouth.

He carefully placed his blade into its red crushed velvet bag,

pulling the draw string, tight like a noose around a neck

with a sense of satisfaction.

His blade, it never let him down,

not like people

he thought, as he sauntered off

to celebrate his triumph in his local.