muddy knees and bloody handprints
dragged themselves across her white carpeting
left a mess that can't be cleaned
ever
no matter how hard she scrubs
because she remembers
how he looked
when he came to her,
beaten down by life
(that smelled an awful lot like the overly sweet ozone
of a stormbeaten corn field)
to die in the arms of a woman
who didn't love him
anymore
and she wondered as the hot steam showered away
the fragments of his last pleading looks
whether he could see with his final breaths
that she was gone
before he was.
she still doesn't love him, but she loathes herself more....for what she couldn't give one last time...for a man's dying wish that went unanswered.

life goes on,
but guilt stains deeper than muddied, bloodied soul prints.




*i'm honestly not sure how i feel about this one....its kind of a departure from my norm but when they write themselves without a lot of struggle i try to just get out of the way*