The Intensity Of Blood Poem by Monica Money

The blood is on my hands.

What have I become? What have I done?

Blood in my mouth.

I can taste it now.

The sweetness and bitterness that's inside.

I remember.

See them in my hands.

I didn't mean to! I wasn't supposed to!

Gunshots ringing in my ears.

Me filled with fear

Blood is on my hands.

Suddenly, I feel cold.

No winter.

No Spring.

Neither Summer.

Neither Fall.

Just a breeze.

Breeze of agonizing cruelty.

It was very idiotic of me.

Lost and angered.

What have I done?

Blood is still on my hands.

I don't want to do this! I just want to feel pure bliss!

But I just can't help it.

Gunshots ringing in my ears.

Me feeling wounded.

Me self-destructing.

No more suffering! No more torture! Please, I beg of you!

Gunshots.

Gunshots.

Gunshots.

It was life-changing.

Very eye-opening.

Blood will forever be on my hands.

I really do hope you can understand.

Just needed violence and the hell to stop.

Just needed the wind to blow a river.

It didn't need to be like this.

So

insufferable.

So

intolerable.

What have I become? What have I done?

It's devastating.

It's depressing.

As to I, who will forever have blood on my hands.

Traumatizing.

Destroying.

Desolating.

Chaos.

Nothing will be the same again.

Can you look at me now?

Because I became something horrifying.

Something tragic.

I've done the unspeakable.

Blood can never be washed away.

It's always going to be there.

So,

can you?