Yet another thing written a while back, but recently dug up. Enjoy.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t even look at me.
There’s blood on my hands.
It’s wet.
It’s red.
It screams the truth.
A WORD FROM THE SCARED
If you have to choose between
the truth and lies,
or the truth and pain,
or the truth and death,
choose the latter.
Because, in the end, truth is all of those things.
A knife. It glistens. Just like my hands.
Please, it whispers, don’t do this. I wasn’t made for this.
A WORD FROM THE FOOLISH
Listen to the knife.
It wasn’t made for murder.
I didn’t listen. And still it begs, that knife, and it haunts.
How selfish I was, to abuse that poor, little knife. All it wanted was a existence of being, and of being clean. Dirt, it can take. That can be washed off. But nothing can wash away the stains of blood, of a life taken, and a weapon to blame.
A WORD FROM THE GUILTY
Think, always think.
Don’t do, never do.
Control your emotions,
and hold tight your passions,
hiding them away where they cannot be found.
After all,
the knife isn’t the only thing that cannot be cleansed of blood.
I ran away. I ran. That’s all I could ever do. And I was sick of it.
That’s why I did it, took action, killed that man. I thought I was confronting the situation. Instead, I only made way for more running, and for more desperate running. Now, I don’t have a choice. If I stop, it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.
A WORD FROM THE HUNTED
Grief is powerful.
It possesses people.
Violent people.
Cause people grief, and you’ll never regret it.
Because there’s no time to regret when
you’re running from those people.
I stopped.
Why did I stop?
I shouldn’t have.
It hurt, stopping. Everything caught up to me.
A WORD FROM THE REFLECTORS
If, by chance, this does happen, any of it,
don’t stop.
Don’t think.
Things come when you stop and think:
Guilt.
Pain.
Regret - which is the worst.
And, finally,
the hunters.
And they’ll do anything to get revenge.
They hate me. Of course they do - I killed their friend, their family.
I hate me. So that just shows how much they must hate me, too.
I try to run again, but it doesn’t work. They find me. Do you really want to know what happens then?
A WORD FROM THE BEATEN
Violence is never the answer.
Or maybe it always is.
Either way, these people like it.
They like it a lot.
How close to death can you be beaten without dying?
While still holding a breath?
While still able to draw a breath?
How much pain can you feel before the reality sinks in?
That it’s futile?
I’m going to die.
They’re going to kill me.
I try to sit up, but I can’t. Pain, it floods my being. It encompasses my soul. I cannot think and I don’t dare try to hang onto life. I just want it over. Now.
They stick my knife, my poor little knife, the one not made for murder, into my stomach, in an ironic ending. And, ironically, it doesn’t hurt. The pain, the guilt, and the regret, it all stops.
A WORD FROM THE DEAD
When death means nothing,
Why bother with life?
