His blood stains my
soul and skin, deep shades
of red and black, warm and cold
at the same time, metallic
in taste and so soft to the touch.
It pools underneath his body,
draining from the hole underneath his
chin, draining from the hole in the
back of his head,
forming a hole in the floor when
there is no hole in the floor.
His dead eyes stare at the ceiling,
blue, once full of life but now empty.
His voice hung in the air even when he
was unable to speak, a final “Goodbye”
before the trigger pull and the release of
the metal shell that killed him.
The hot air, the cold air, so many
conflicting feelings of dread and hate,
of sorrow and relief, of so many things
as the first voice is added to the foray of
demons in my head.
The image of a bloody twelve year old,
who took his own life, his cries unheard by
anyone but me.
I have to listen to his cries, his complaints,
his need and hunger to breathe again.
She left no blood behind,
but she left a cold and heartless sense of hate
and sorrow and bad habits returning as she
joined him inside my head, her cold feeling
of death sticking to my hands like a ghost,
her dead eyes unable to be seen underneath
the veil of her perfect eyelids, her skin
pale like a white mare, her veins sticking out
like electric cords on a guitar, sticking so far
and so blue she seemed almost foreign, her black
hair so straight it almost seemed as if she was still alive,
even though the empty bottle of pills said otherwise.
Sometimes, when I hear them,
they almost seem alive, they almost
seem like I can touch them like they’re
still there even though they aren’t there.
Sometimes, I can feel their blood pumping
with mine like some kind of horrendous river.
Their blood can never leave me,
even when I bathe in bleach.