Returns

This was for the 'Trade You My Soul' Competition

He walks head down through the woods,
It began here a long time ago.
He returns so often and doesn't know why,
The atmosphere lingers like an echo.

A cigarette in hand, he reminisces,
Of each woman so unique and profound.
He takes a drag, and sees the etches,
On the trees to which each woman was bound.
He blows out the smoke, and sees the stains,
Of the blood of the most recent of pursuits.
He flicks the butt, and recalls the cries,
As he'd punish and persecute.

He stares at the horizon he's seen so many times,
What will the next look like when he's forced his way in?
Dreaming of the ways he can contort her shaking body,
What will she scream when he cuts through her skin?
How will she taste when she's starting to fade?
Will she continue to do as she's told?
He'll drag her head back by her dirtied hair,
And then slit her throat slowly, and leave her callously and cold.