Alicyn Harris
I didn’t mean to do it.
It was an honest mistake.
One minute we were talking and the next your blood was dripping down,
Down onto the floor.
Your beautiful blood coated my hands.
I hadn’t washed it off yet.
I didn’t mean to do it.
Someone had taken over my body.
A puppeteer was above me and I was the marionette,
Unable to fight the strings attached.
I sat on the floor in your pool of fluids.
Your kitchen knife still in my hands.
I didn’t mean to do it.
I would need to bury you.
I would need to mop the floor and wash my hands.
I would need to get the shovel,
And battle the rocky ground for your final resting place.
I dreaded the work.
It was a lovely spring day; the kind of day you always loved.
If you weren’t dead you would’ve been tending to your garden, picking vegetables. But you were dead now,
Because of me.
I tried to feel something other than mild annoyance.
Sadness, fear, excitement, nausea, guilt, joy
Nothing came but emptiness.
Not even your death could make me feel something.
Not even the fear in your eyes when I sank the knife into your soft stomach.
Perhaps I had meant to do it,
On some subconscious level
I meant to do it.