It

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.