Blood on My Hands

There is blood on my hands.

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1. Blood on My Hands

There is blood on my hands. 

Oh god. There is blood on my hands. 

It is not my own blood. 

There is blood on my hands, and it is not my own. 

I didn't mean to do it. 

I didn't mean to do it and now there is blood on my hands and it isn't my own. 

She was just there, and she was so untouchable, and so perfect, and I couldn't have her. 

I couldn't have her, and I didn't want anyone else to have her if I couldn't. 

She rejected me and she was so perfect and I didn't mean to do it and now there's blood on my hands and it isn't my own. 

I felt the life ebb out of her, slowly, in waves, like the tide on that golden beach we wandered down once, together, happy, even though she wasn't really beside me and I was only imagining the feel of her cool hand in mine and her deep melodic voice and her hair blown back in the wind and her slightly sunburnt skin and her rosy cheeks. 

I didn't mean to do it and I felt the life ebb out of her slowly and now there is blood on my hands and it isn't my own. 

I run my fingers from her forehead, down and around, following the curve of her jaw.

I run my fingers from her forehead down and around following the curve of her jaw and I didn't mean to do it and now there is blood on my hands and it isn't my own. 

Why did I do it? How could I remove the life and laughter from someone so perfect?

But I did do it. I did it and I kept those happy times for myself as memories and I didn't mean to do it and now there is blood on my hands and it isn't my own. 

And now I reach for it, the blade glinting in the half light. 

And the blade goes deep, deeper than I had intended. 

But maybe, deep down, I had meant it to go that deep. 

Maybe I hoped it would draw blood, and as I bled the memories would flow out of my body, mingled with my blood. 

Maybe I hoped the memories would flow out of my body mingled with my blood and I didn't mean to do it and now there is blood on my hands and it isn't my own but it is my own too and it all mixes together and it's like I'm connected to her, finally, after such a long time. 

And now I'm bleeding too and I lay my head on her chest and wish I could hear her heartbeat once more, wish my own frail thumps would have a template, so that they could beat in time. 

There is blood on my hands and it isn't my own and it is my own and I no longer care, as long as I can stay like this, close to her, forever.

And I realise, as I drift into the darkness which is painfully devoid of the constellations and nebulae that I have always taken so much pleasure in gazing at on starry nights, that we are finally equals, in death, our blood smeared all over my hands, and I will be with her once more. 

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