ethereal movements bearing scars from a life unknown

like a gossamer dress hanging from your shoulders, worn and stained

could you recall it? all of that pain?

"Put that in the wash," but it’s too delicate

too soft, golden and weary, leaf dusted on your cheeks, poised for something you'd never understand

prettied and lovely, like pair of silvery earrings made to decorate them, and yet

did you realize how fast it would tarnish?

"Don't you love the growl of the car? The throb of the engine?" but you didn't like it at all

an untouched place, an empty seat, all you had to do was sit and lay there, quietly and gently, and taint the whitest rose—

but those men stole it from you, not your innocence, no, they stole the lives of those around you, those who you loved and cared for with all your heart and soul.

you almost wished they had taken the rose instead, but no, now you were alone, weeping in a closet in a basement littered with corpses.

but the craving crawled beneath your skin

desire, vengeance, a bloodlust stronger than any mortal feeling experienced on this plane

Justice, I crave justice, you assured yourself of this

but what was it that you desired? did you want to wrong the scars under your skin, yet to be created, a rose pure and yet bloodied by something else entirely?

"What a strange parasite has overcome you, my dear. Won't you sit with me here?" They had dared to ask you again.

And again.

And again, maddeningly driving you closer to the edge

"You haven't had enough bodies yet, have you? Nothing satiates your hunger."

A black pot pouring boiling water into a teakettle, overflowing with the terrible heat, and despite this, you continued; "I can give you what they wanted. Exactly what they wanted."

And you filled your own void, stuffed it with blood that was not your own, rather than taking the ride through the night

Adrenaline constantly pulsing through you and your flushed veins, riding and driving hard, how this tide would pull you further than ever before, leaving you wanting even more

Was your decision to abandon the dead throne correct? Almost certainly, but was your choice to wrong the rights yet done, undone, correct?

A matter of perspective, but to you, your eyes only had shifted as your skull slammed into the concrete. All knew you as a murderer, killer, robber and even more. Perhaps they are right

Those men who slayed your family and friends that night imparted their violence unto you, for instead of bloodying a rose, they gave you theirs. And with a gleeful smile, you slammed your thumb into its thorns, forgetting the consequences.

How many have fallen by my hand?

How many were guilty?

How many were innocent?

And you came to wonder, who made you the judge?

(July 2021)