The Artist

----

Her head is thrown back
Resting against the plaster wall.
Strands of golden hair tangled
Spilling bloodstained over her shoulders.
Clouded eyes stare wide into oblivion
Her mouth fixed open in a scream
From when he ran the knife across her throat.
She lays, slumped on the floor,
Arms bent in five different places
Wrists ripped open,
Bone shining through a mass of broken veins.
Blood trails over the cold, pale skin,
The dribbles criss-crossing over each other
Falling steadily into a red pool.
The smooth flesh of her face,
Torn and mangled,
Covered in rotting bile,
From when he carved into that tender form.
Slits and cuts
Flowing down disjointed legs
Traced in swirling patterns of brown.

Murder, they call it
Whispering behind hands with venom and disgust.
But he smiles and gazes at his masterpiece with loving eyes.

Art, he says.

--

A.N: ...I think I sense some people who wants to kill me.