Poor, Poor Victim

I hold it in my hand,   
the metal cold against my bare skin.   
Your life belongs to me,   
I choose your fate.   
 
You heard me coming,   
but a second too late.   
I snuck behind you in the shadows,   
following you block after block.   
I slipped the knife   
to your throat; my face pressed   
to the side of yours.   
You kicked and screamed   
but out here, no one gives a damn   
about the girl from the streets.   
My fist crashes against the   
back of your head spinning you   
into unconsciousness.   
 
When you awaken, your eyes   
widen in shock.   
I watch from the shadows as   
you struggle against the restraints   
and scream to a God that   
neither of us believe in.   
I contemplate how to end your life,   
a gun would be quick, the bullet   
penetrating the soft skin, crashing   
through your skull and finally reaching   
the precious brain.   
A knife would be satisfactory enough,   
watching all of the blood leave your   
body; your brain starve from no oxygen.   
But neither is what I choose.   
I want to see you struggle,   
hear you scream.   
The life slowly leave your eyes,   
watch you breathe no more.   
 
 
Suffocation is what they will   
write on your death certificate,   
murder is what they will say.   
Whispers among parents, worried   
for their own.   
My face will be on the news.   
But you, you will be forgotten,   
as I live on, I utter the words   
you poor, poor victim.