With every benign conversation,
So even in my tone,
But yet behind it a silent voice screaming,
To remind me of what I’ve done.
My hands type on the computer,
A task that’s so familiar,
So innocently they cook, they clean,
Could they be that of a killer?
And when I question my reasoning,
Perhaps morbid, perhaps thrilling,
Simply to create a singular moment in which,
So perfect was the killing.
Yet tender and kind I am and remain,
To everyone in sight,
As they look at me without suspicion I think,
Oh no, not you, not tonight.
The rope so innocently used,
To bind up blankets, they never suspect,
Memories of the day I took his life,
Tightening it round his neck.
But is any murder perfect?
Is there any reward to be won?
Sometimes I just want to want to scream, “It was me!”
Escape the nightmare and be done.
Yet with every ring of the telephone,
With every knock on the door I pray,
That whatever falls in, those buckets will catch,
But they won’t catch me, not today.