Worrying Addiction

I've been fucking corpses in my mind for years,
Dead girls with pretty smiles drawn on
And my face reflected in both their eyes.
The exact opposites of me,
Cold exterior's, still warm inside.
Perhaps it started from rape-like encounters,
Youthful indulgences into dark folly,
Power play and possessive worship,
Obsessive manipulation and fantasizing.
Watching something getting fucked that I'd wish was dead
To incite the confusion of hate-ridden arousal,
An exercise in self control and eventual appeasement,
A worrying addiction to inhumane desires.
Late night break-ins with false soles and trackless digits
Are becoming a mandatory venture,
Sitting at sleeper's bedsides with a backpack full of tools;
Bags, blades, chemicals, towels, cloths, wire and tape
Imagining the murder and psychological rape.
Hours of staring at steadily breathing women
Listening to their every comforted sound,
Tracing their collar bones, as if they were zips
Wondering if tonight's the night.
Of-course financial needs to be attended first,
Better equipment required,
No mistakes or deviation from plans tolerable
When there is murder in every method.
The wait merely intoxicates further,
Till then I stick to sitting by dreamers
A mere shadow hovering above them,
Waiting to become manifest enough
To turn into their nightmare;
I'll be tying fishing line round ankles
Stuffing groping mouths,
Binding wrists which long to flail
And turning the life's I admire
Into temporary depictions of my denied fantasies,
Whilst boasting about it
In disbelieved anonymity,
To continually relive each event
Before I'm ever thought of.