In the Hands of the Killer

I don't know what it is, exactly...but...

I've watched it rip people to pieces,

rip people apart.

Stuff their hearts with cotton and watch as they stop breathing, and fall.

And fall.

And fall.

I try to yell at them to survive,

but then I remember that it was me that caused it all. Me that started it all.

I remember what I told each of them-

A jumbled mess of the other's thoughts.

I tried to make sense of it all and only made it worse.

So, if you want to blame anybody at all...

Blame me.

The one who told you it would be fine.

The one who killed you, in the process of healing you.

Blame me.

The one who watched both of you cry.

And watched, helpless, as it ripped you both apart,

ripped you both to pieces.

They both say they're fine now.

But their eyes...their eyes tell such a sad story.

They try to mask what they're feeling,

but I've seen so many times, I know it by heart.

I've done this so, so many times.

They say you learn from your mistakes.

But I never even realize I'm doing the same damn thing until it's too late.

I haven't learned.

I haven't grown.

I've just got more demons now.

But this poem isn't about me.

No, it's about what I've done.

It's about the ones I've killed.

And ripped apart.

And what I leave as I walk away,

pretending.

Like I'm always pretending,

To pretend that I'm pretending-

That nothing ever happened here.

That no graves were dug,

that no tears were shed,

and I'm pretending that I'm innocent as I walk away from piles,

upon piles of dead bodies that have my name written all over them,

in permanent marker, 

in multi-colored sharpies.

My fingerprints and my blood and their blood-

all mixed together like the ingredients to the perfect wine.

And if I keep running...

and running, and running, and running, and running-

If I keep running...

They couldn't possibly catch me,

could they?