you fist my hair in your hands as the world fades into little flashes. the smell of gunpowder clings to your skin. blood rots your hands and leaves them lifeless. i do not understand why you appear so haunted until you show me your blades, your darling scimitars; they are tainted and bruised, gleaming with the curse of death upon its tongue. you slide it against your hands, a punishment for your sins, and collapse against my arms. a raven screams out the announcement of your deeds nearby. oh, darling, how have we gotten here?
