Have you ever washed the blood of another off of yourself?

Standing under the shower’s rain,
Rinsing, and scrubbing the blood off your face and arms.
Staining the tile where you stand;
Swirling hypnotically down the drain.

I shot you;
I’m the reason you’re dead,
And the splatter of blood across my face proves it.

The gunpowder is still under my nails,
Black as ever as if I scratched my way out of my own coffin into yours.
I’m still coughing up dirt, I swear.

I stabbed you;
I’m the reason you won’t wake up.

The blade glimmered as I twisted it into you so fluidly.  
I was afraid to pull it out,
Afraid that a piece of myself was embedded in you too.
The dagger is a shade of red and brown as if you were ***** just like me.

I killed you!
Can’t you see? You can’t.
But, I believe, no, I know you feel it somewhere.
Somehow.

This water isn’t hot enough.
It’s not scalding enough to burn the feeling of you off of me.
But the blood,
Oh, the blood.
A never ending crimson sea, a deep bleeding river of you, slowly, but surely, disappearing from existence.

I run a bath,
The shower wasn’t enough.

I’m still stained.
I’m still tainted,
I’m still bleeding into someone who isn’t me.

The water swishes as I settle in.
Back and forth, up and down,
Over and under the sides of the tub.

The water won’t stop turning red,
A deep red.

A reminder that I killed you,
That I shot you,
That I stabbed you.
That I don’t regret it,

But regret isn’t guilt.
Is it?

It’s ******.