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by Penelope E. Davidsen
I wonder what his blood would look like on my hands.
Would it sink deep into my pours?
Penetrating my skin?
Would it help, or hurt?
How would he feel?
Would his blood feel cold or warm?
I see myself standing above him.
A dagger in my hands.
That cold steel with and endless point to hurt him.
I want to take him apart.
Slowly ripping and tarring at him.
I see myself start to cry.
Could this be remorse, or just deep pain for what I felt for him?
I now hold his heart in my hand.
I lift his head and kiss his cheek.
It is finally over, the pain is almost gone.
Just one last thing to do.
I now see my body next to his.
It too is bleeding.
There is now nothing left of the love I had for him,
And now there is nothing left for his new love.
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