Massacre

Don’t let them see

The red from my head

Spilling out onto the couch,

The floor,

The grass,

The tiles.

.

The neighbours come

To see what’s wrong.

“If you ever wondered what a massacre looked like, this is it.”

.

My soul is plastered to the walls. I’ve been ripped at the seams and, no one knows, the seams were sturdy yesterday.

I think.

I can’t remember that far back.

I’m sure they were tight and strong and holding me together. Jagged edges and bias cut body stitched and clinging to the world,

The room,

The couch,

The tiles.

.

The blood is quiet but the fear is loud. Ringing off the walls as I hear Death creeping closer. Maybe I can still be more quiet; silence the drops of blood hitting the couch,

The floor,

The grass,

The tiles.

.

“No, I’m fine. I like it down here, I’m watching the stars.”

The neighbours pick me up. They feel my weight and I wish they would just leave me here to rot,

To die,

To lie

On the tiles.