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By Andraaknas

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.

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About This Story
19 Nov, 2019
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