Memories

Hate, you ask?
Hate is this cold, sharpened, blade.
It is  it's point pricking your neck.

My relief is your fucking blood pouring out of your throat,
As you let out wet gurgles of blood trying to speak.

My satisfaction is the smell of your burning flesh filling the air,
As the flames leap higher and higher,
As your flesh melts away, barely leaving a corpse.

My elation is knowing you're filled with pain,
As the pieces of red, steaming, metal start sticking to your skin,
As your muffled screams grow higher and higher.
As I see true fear in your eyes.

I'm already picturing the squirming of millions of worms,
Eating away at your fucking putrid organs,
As your fucking body rots in an unmarked grave.

And all this shall come to pass,
As I hold my head in one hand,
And my memories in the other.