There's something sick about the blood still on the door.
There's something sicker still about the way that you touched me.
There's something brutally honest in these walls.

You were predatory, coming undone.
And it's the one thing I haven't figured out or washed away.

There's some things you can't scrub clean.
My hands still smell like bleach from all the times I've tried.

You were anything but accidental.
You were calm, criminal, calculating,

Broken.

I was all your gory daydreams,
Covered in flowers,

Wilting.

There's no way to run with bruised limbs and broken bones
And blood never cleanses sins.

But sacrifice in the name of "please don't take me."
Please don't take me.

Am I still going to hell?