The Assassin

The feeling of needles prick the back of my neck, Stares so sharp they can cut me where I stand, A criminal unaware of what she has done, I stand here waiting for the torture that will come. The assassin knows I'm here.

The assassin knows I'm weak. Her words do not just hit me like bullets from a gun, But pierce me, like shrap metal from her specially homemade bomb.

Her previous torments clouded in my head,

Wondering how she'll top the time she almost tied my neck.

I know she's coming and yet I'm never prepared,

No bullet proof jacket, or weapon to bear.

My voice is not loaded with bullets of my own,

I just stand ready for the torment that I seem to deserve.

The assassin knows I’m here.

The assassin knows I’m weak.

So I just stand there, waiting for the day,

That my wound is so deep no repairs can be made.

One day I’ll bleed out, my body empty and dry,

The assassin's job will be done,

And tears will no longer prick my eyes.