Last night, I dreamt of empty faces and cold blood and losing everyone no matter how hard I tried.

And I tried. I tried to end it quick but I just couldn’t push the blade deep enough into its spine so we watched it scream and cry and thrash beneath my hands that burned so red with sin. I heard a satisfying crunch when the splintered bone finally broke away beneath the skin and I felt guilty while you all breathed relief.

I locked all the doors and scrubbed my hands raw until I broke skin. I felt dirty. I was dirty. This one didn’t get a chance. No desperate plea, no yellow prayer, just a gun to the back of his skull. I left his body in the living room and almost enjoyed the irony. He serves as a constant reminder of a sacrifice of innocence to this lost cause because I was the only one in that god damn house and I cried and cried because there wasn't anything left. Nothing to protect, nothing that could justify these red hands and stolen breath.


Today, I woke up feeling cold and alone and cradled in my own arms.