Fire Burning House from Pixabay


Precious Sleeve Present

Greg Prince
5 min readJun 8, 2019


She stole my love and ate my heart. I can not let her escape. The embodiment of my pain mocks me with each breath she takes.

Punishment and suffering are her future.

The night does not conceal her treachery. I saw. They make love every weekend while I’m at work. We have just been married for three years. Women joined forever before nature and the eyes of the world.

Why does she taunt me with dirty betrayal?

Wouldn’t she know of my jealousy? I see the scum going down on her. Their throws of ecstasy are sickening. Did they hear me wretch? Obviously, my presence is still hidden. The blonde’s head is still buried in her.

Attractive as my love’s companion is she remains an infection which I will eliminate. My wrath will be brutal.

I’ll wait patiently.

Jillian and her friend are kissing goodbye. I’ll see my love later at home. She’ll think I’m just coming back from work.

Alone in the shower. How perfect. But no. Too cliche. I can’t believe Jillian picked a ditz to have an affair with. She left the front door unlocked.

I’ll wait quietly.

I’ve seen this one before. She’s been at our apartment. Jillian doesn’t know I saw the video on her phone.

She would say, “Cathy, mind your own biz” if she knew I snooped her. Her anger is real but makes me want to prod her more.

The utility closet in this house is huge. Hiding beside the stacked washer and dryer is easy and comfy.

Want for her blood fills my eagerness.

Surprise and shock are my biggest weapons but I will be subtle and stealthy. Her vanity screams weakness. She’s only a blond shape to be reformed and cleaned. A vessel of iniquity which must relinquish wrongs and be freed.

The folding door of this closet better not creek when I open it. A slight scrape is all the door sounds as I move out into the hallway. She didn’t hear me. She’s happily singing to herself and preening her eyelashes in the bathroom mirror.



Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.