Fan Fiction ❯ Poems ❯ Perfection ( Chapter 8 )

You want me to be perfect.

You want me to succeed.

You want me to be everything that you weren't.

You push me too hard.

You yell when I don't get an A.

You always think that I can do it.

I can't.

I'm not you, and I never will be.

I'll never be perfect.

I'll never be you.

So, this is why I did this.

This is why I have to kill you.

Because I can never live up to your standards,

I'll never get A's in school.

I'll never be perfect.

I'm not smart, I can't even speak right.

But the one thing I learned,

The one thing that I hold dear to me,

Is my knife.

I taught myself how to use.

Years and years of cutting myself.

So now, I stand outside your room

Holding my beloved knife in my hands.

Running the sharp blade over my fingertips.

Slitting my fingers, causing blood to flow.

I rub them together, and press them to my mouth.

Tangy blood stings my tongue.

I open your door, and watch you in your bed.

I hate you so much, because you expect too much of me.

Now you must die.

I'll never be perfect.

I walk over to you, and raise my knife.

I hold the position for what seems like hours.

I want you to be awake when I stab you.

I want you to scream as you die.

You wake up soon, staring up at me.

You're disoriented, too tired to comprehend me,

Standing there with my knife.

You finally understand, but then its too late.

The knife is in your chest, strait into your heart.

The one thing I remembered is where the heart is

Inside your chest.

For the longest time I thought you didn't have a heart,

Pushing me the way you did.

Hitting me for no reason,

You must have thought the blows to my head would make me smart.

They didn't, only making me stupider.

But, now, who's the stupid one?

I'm holding the knife, you're stuck to the bed,

Held fast by my knife.

One word escapes your mouth.

"Why?"

I snicker, and reply,

"You know why."

You die more quickly than I thought.

I had hoped you would suffer.

But at least your dead.

And I can live out my lifelong dream.

To rid the world of people like you.

A/N: My parents don't push me like that, of course. I just know people who's parents expect them to be perfect. "You're not giving 110%!" I actually heard someone say that once, at a basketball game.

Please review. As I've said before, if someone reviews my poem, I'd be happy to review some of their stuff.