The blood on my hands taunts me.
Is it really all worth it?
I’ve killed those who threaten the ones I love.
But won’t there always be more?
I’ve mothered a child by a monster.
Will I raise him to be good?
Why must the rage always kill?
I can’t control it
When the red falls over me like a cloak.
Is it ever worth it to keep fighting?
What good does it do to continue the killing?
I hate myself for the blood.
The blood of those who had families.
The blood of those who dreamed.
The blood of those who threatened.
Am I strong because of this?
A good mother?
My son is being raised by a murderer.
Will he kill too?
What gives me the right to give and take lives?
The red drowns me.
Smothers me.
Strangles me.
How can my spirit live on?
I am no better than anyone else,
Yet I am given this curse.
The curse of strength?
Is that what it is?
Strength?
The power to end a life with a single gesture?
I’m soaked in blood.
How can I live like this and not bring my sweet child down with me?
Is it even worth trying?