Blood

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?

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