The blood on my palms is ours
It is our blood smeared on these walls
Spilling over the thresholds
Staining the sheets.
They’ll take bleach to walls and the floors
Try to scrub us away almost as hard as I did
And the grit under their fingernails will look like mine
The copper smell of us will give way to ammonia
And years from now they’ll tell the story
Of the little girl gone mad
Taking an axe to her own heart
Just to numb the thunder pace
And that boy who found her
Took the pistol to silence the bedlam in his head
And ease the guilt in his chest.