My hands are stained and trembling with a clear, crimson red. A rich and ugly sight to behold, I wonder who is dead.
Who’s blood do I have smeared all over me? I don’t think to wash it off, it’s almost exposure therapy, to see how long I could last, evidence, for all to see, show them I am a bad person, so I can be free.
I must be a killer, to be with all this red, it seems to wrap around my limbs, it feels heavier, but it’s all in my head.
The blood flows and flows, an endless source, I follow upstream, searching for a corpse.
The crimson trail never ends, just a long loop and if I turn back now, surely I’ll drown.
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