With my own two hands I grabbed the handle of the knife, I squeezed the trigger of the gun, I emptied the pills into their mouth; I killed them.
With my own words spilling from my mouth I had emptied them beforehand of any will to protest as I now watched the light escape their eyes and reflect off the mirror for one last time; I'd killed them.
I had destroyed them from within, decimated them methodically for years, but some still say it was unexpected. And now the sin is dripping off my fingers and I know it should be red but it's white and that's supposed to be holy, right? but somehow it's worse, so much worse. Because it means one of two things, maybe I'm crazy, or maybe the person I murdered was too good to be dead or maybe it's both.
In a haze I try to wash it off but I realize the sin isn't dripping off my hands, it's pouring through my veins. It's pumping through my being and white is supposed to be holy but I look just look like a freak, like the monster I've always been.
With my own two hands i had killed them and instead of red there white and maybe I should go to the light, that's what I wanted right? Right?
With my own two hands i had scratched at their skin, left razor marks in their flesh, squeezed their throat so they couldn't breathe.
With my own thoughts I had left them rotting in their own mind, left to cry alone night after night.
With my own doubts I made them push away everyone in fear that they didn't want me anyways.
With my own consciousness I peeled away from them so I wouldn't have to feel anymore but it's harder to reattach a shadow than just sewing it on.
With my own two hands i emptied the pills into my mouth, one by one, under we could no longer hurt.
