Hand cuffs wrap around your wrists. Maybe it was a dream. That I wait for. Maybe my words cut you like a knife when you cut me like a piece of paper with unyielding actions that excuse everything with believed little white lies (words you say). But lies lay bare underneath. Your tongue with a finishing smirk. Maybe then I won't wake up hoping the place you're in won't you get out. Breaking or banging on the walls. I'm scared but like a monster under a bed. Which I should've killed. I think you feel bad. But you're not so guilty. I'll blame you everyday, and no accountability because in your case I'm the villain. A undenying remix of our story that has already faded over time. I recall every step and be careful enough to get my hands all over you again. I had some fun but you had a lot of fun. This was your type of thing, nor should I be tracing your movement under the rug in plastic your dead body lays with my scent all over you before you did. Did you feel bad, but you're out and you're alive and I know you're not guilty. Stalking, stalker, walking a walker down to death and I found this fun it's my type of thing. No regret, but I'm left in ur bed. And you're left in my head. Memories haunt. They always taunt me. Then I decided one day to get you. I grabbed my journals, traced every pattern and every movement of yours and wiped out my gallery. I don't want to go to jail for my actions. I pinned it on you, but when I grabbed the knife and stabbed her, I started to bleed. A knife in my chest, a ghost in the mirror. I Feel Bad But I'm Not Guilty Am I? -MinarkysArcc.