The Art of Sadism

I bare a smile, brighter than
a white fence with a fresh coat
of paint,  
as crimson fills his eyes.

My fingers intricately 
lace
around his neck,

sweaty palms consummated.

Saliva crawls down his cheek,
suspended in air
like spider silk.

I release my grip and admire my work,
a violet flower,
tattooed on his jugular.

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