Murder Poem by Franca Kenneth

When we finished with each other,
he lay looking at me.
He knew how exhausted and wounded I was from the battle,
but I still had plenty of strength left in me.
My eyes were closed now,
my breathing even,
and my hands still held him.
My fingers curled around what was left of him,
this time in tenderness
not trying to squeeze the manhood out of him.
I opened my eyes.
He touched my face and he saw the blood all over me,
and all over him.
The dishevelled mess of both of us,
our clothes and the bed linens,
all in chaos.
I knew the blood will haunt me forever.