I didn’t kill anyone, yet I’m a killer.
My hands aren’t clean, its covered with blood.
I tried to wash it off but it doesn’t seem to come off.
The color of crimson is permanent on my hands; it can’t be rinsed off.
It’s not someone’s blood, it’s my own blood that covers my hands.
I’ve killed myself dozens of times just to survive.
I’ve killed parts of myself to fit in, to survive, to keep on living.
Something had to die somewhere so I could stay alive.