Fresh from the kill
she stumbles forward,
mind racing,
blood rushing,
hands trembling,
knees weak.
First one,
and it makes something
in her stomach lurch,
something in her
heart break.
It will be that way
the next time,
and the time after that,
and the tenth time,
and the fiftieth time,
and every time
afterward.
It will give her pause,
and it will hurt her,
and she will leave
a piece
of herself,
diminishing and
diminishing.
It will not empty her;
it cannot —
but it will undo her
more and more
until she is
a negative of herself,
poured out
and broken away
so much so that there is
less of her
than there can be,
until she is
un-her,
not-her.
I will have
driven her to this,
and that is my worst sin,
far worse than any others
I have committed,
far worse
than any of the deaths
on my gloveless hands.
Worse than death
to her as well,
this un-thing
that I am doing
to her,
bit by bit
by bit,
just so
that I may be
a little less
alone.
