BLOODSTAINED HANDS

I was you, you were me.

I killed you, you killed me.

It was a crime that I did it to you.

It was a crime you did it to me.

Why am I the only one imprisoned?

Why am I the only one with bloodstains on his hands?

You are gone, I am still here.

I'm not so sure that's a good thing.

Because now I am completely alone.

With a total absence of everything.

Do I still believe?

Do I not believe any more?

The one thing I do know is that I do not know.

I am condemned.

I am cursed by my own words.

Where do I go from here?

When here is nowhere.

I regret everything I regret.

I left you lying dead on the ground.

But, I feel as though I am the one who's dead.

I am a ghost.

Neither here nor there.

Life no longer exists for me.

But then again, it never did.

There is no such thing as freedom.

I walk in the shadows.

I prefer it that way.

How am I supposed to believe with this black cloud looming over me?

Why has agony consumed me?

I know that I am guilty.

I punish myself every day.

I torture and torment myself.

I almost derive perverse pleasure from it.

It's almost like I'm killing myself all over again.

As I live in a prison of my own making.

Six walls and darkness absolute.

I scratch and I claw.

Even though there is no hope for escape.

Here I will remain.

This time I will wither and flake away.

I will crack and crumble to minute dust.

With no legacy left.

No one ever cared.

No one will ever care.

The no good son.

The wayward one.

The prodigal.

I killed you, you killed me.

I am no more, you are no more.

Just two lost souls, now become one.

But the end is the same.

SCOTT DAVID BUCKLEY