Hands

Choke. Choke. Choke.

If I get my hands on you
then it will not be pretty;
It is difficult admitting
what envy makes me do.

For if I get my hands on you,
then perhaps I may avenge
the abyss and cliff and edge
that you have pushed me to.

Oh, when I get my hands on you
you will not see me coming;
You shall bleed and ill be humming
a jaunty, stress-free tune.

Soon my hands will be on you,
an almost-purple red;
Cascading colours bled,
crimson brew accrued.

My hands so tight around you,
my thumbs buried in your throat,
sweet music as you choke.
Sweet music as you choke.

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