After his crime

The corners in my room cries for help but with a mute voice,
how i hope i stopped to the 11 street,may be i could have erase his unshaved face.

The breathe of him still ghosting me in my steps,that unmerciful chest he shaded on my flesh,the people in me say i shouldn't cry because the day already took a train

Just like whispering nightmare cries for blood,he took my soul and nickname it his pleasure.