With Red Ink

I refuse to commit
a direct murder.

This paper is your body,
entangled by your own coldness,
impeding you to struggle.

Crumpled.
Now I can hear
the melodramatic crunch
of your breaking bones.

Don't move. You can't
for your limbs are already crippled.

Cut.
Now I can taste
your blood, like rust,
as red as this red ink;
oozing
from your severed veins.

Your hands and legs,
separates from your torso,
as I gently amputate them.

Torn.
Now I can see
your rasping flesh and lacerations;
muscles and organs ripped apart.

And there's your heart,
which I thought never existed,
beating barely.

But, don't worry
for I'll be stitching your wounds,
bringing back
this lot of confetti into a whole

paper--
that is what you are.

You'll be living again
like you have never felt
any excruciating pain,
for I have never been
a torturer nor a murderer,

and you will always be
a cold paper flesh
that garners immortality
from a heart of stone
that sees no unbreakable.

How my pen jots with red ink
will always be a lot better
than how your tongue swings like a

sword, summoning sharp stabbing

words.