Blood on my hands.
Calling for someone.
Anyone.
Roommate is by the door.
Laying in the palms of my hands.
A fetus.
It’s dead.
Symbolizing holding on to the dead past.
You perhaps.
How could this be?
Laying on the bathroom floor.
Blood surroonding me.
Every inch.
I see you standing at the doorway.
Such a pale face.
You wanted it but didn’t want to say.
I would never.
Never focusing on children.
Or can i?
Could it have been a new life for us?
Maybe a warning.
Im awaken from such reverie.
Horror and pain rush up my spine.
Almost feeling it in my hands.
Our it.