Thursday, March 17, 2011

Blood: A Love Story

It was my fault.

But I didn't mean to do it.

Intention doesn't erase the final result. I know this. Intention does not soothe the injuries. My intentions have never justified my actions.

I know this. I knew this before I began to act. And yet, I did so.

Her blood was the sweetest smell I had ever encountered. I wanted to lift her limp body to my face and inhale, to take in that smell. To bury it deep inside of me. I wanted to bury her deep inside of me, to carry her with me at all times.

She lay, limp and pale, still and silent on my floor. Her blood was making the slow journey from the pool beneath her body to my shoes. The red fingers were reaching out for me, to travel up my pants legs and cling to my ankles, to pull me down into wherever it was she ended up.

Slowly, I leaned over and touched that blood.

The warmth surprised me. The feeling ran like electricity up my body, stopping my heart for a moment. I felt the stumble in the steady pounding, caught my breath as the rhythm began again.

I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the coppery sweetness.

Even as I turned to walk away, I felt the stickiness on my lips.

It had never been my intention. And yet it was the culmination of all my actions. So did my intention ever matter?

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