Blood on My Hands

Blood on my hands. I look and see the unseeable. I feel and rest on the spear tip of misery.

Cause I shot the rifle.

My bullet fragmented between us and splintered life into death.

The breath of me breathing what you cannot. The eyes of mine seeing what you cannot. The fingers of mine slippery with warm liquid. I tried to regain, repair, restore. Life rendered into stillness.

Sound stopped. Motion stopped. Time shuddered. Blood on my hands dripping into a dwindling puddle between us.

The pieces of a moment before. The pieces of me, and of you like ashes of burnt paper fluttering on an unwanted breeze. Me grabbing them needing to reassemble life from a grief like a bottomless hole in me.

The memories vivid and jolting. The thoughts bundled around a single second’s decision drain me, drained you.

Will finally end me, ended you. And time stopped at that single moment. Never resuming. Dark and unforgiving. As it should be.

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