Don't you see?
It's all in my hands, the remains of your wrenched heart. The smears of your bloody tears and unstoppable pleadings. Don't blame the murderer for wiping your filthiness off the place. Never wonder why you deserved it. You did when the curve of your sovereign reached its peak and you thought you were made out of opulence's ashes with pecuniary heaviness weighing your pockets and pompousness clogging your veins.
Now you beg.
Now you cry.
When my hands thieved your lungs inhabitants and I became the only gravity you could recognize. Your blood on my hands is an ornament, a decoration I'd wash off to keep the neatness of my clothes. Look at those hues getting familiar with the moistness of tears, those were the same crystals glimmering recalcitrance when you thought you could cross my lines. You get no condolence when you've been warned, darling.
You only get what you deserve; me.
