The blood never stops.
It pours and pours and pours
until my heart is empty,
and she is dead.
No. Not she.
We.
Because I am her and she is me.
We love the same. We feel the same.
But we were shot.
We were killed.
We are dead.
How can we love
if we can't even live?
-to Poussey, Lexa, Tara, Maya, and whoever comes next
