He said—"I like to come and make them bleed.

Not with consent—no. That kills the need.

There’s something about them fighting to breathe,

The way they claw at life—it’s almost sweet.

Penetration, for me—for us—is breath.

Deny us touch, and it’s a kind of death.

Women were made to fulfill desire,

To be devoured, bent, burned in fire.

So why can’t I have her in my hands?

Dangling like rope from my dark demands?

Feet twitching, gasping—

The airway folds.

The last breath taken never gets old.

I like them crawling, silent and scared,

Looking for exits that were never there.

I’ll take my time—piece by piece—

She’s nothing but prey, and I need release.

And don’t tell me it’s wrong—I’m beyond your preachers.

After all," he grinned,

"Finders, keepers."

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