“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.”
-‘Macbeth’, William Shakespeare

Now his hand shakes, the one that doesn’t
Hold the knife that has done the deed.
His fingers slowly unlatch the wood on the instrument,
While a thick crimson nightmare runs down the silver of the blade,
And onto the skin of his hand. It burns like acid.

There she is, curled up onto the floor, gasping for life,
The same crimson veil at her chest. She is near death,
As her eyes, full of tears, as if she expects them to wash the mess
Off this floor, gaze up at him.

“Why?”

He shakes his head. He cannot bear to watch.
He feels he has dealt the proper punishment.
No more, he thinks to himself. No more.

Amidst the trembling and the tears, a smile
Rises up from his cheeks.
It was easy, wasn’t it?
Now the monster is dead.
The monster who has been plaguing him for years,
A flavor of pestilence
Which no herb or mint has been able to remove
From his tongue, until now.

Hate. Jealousy. Annoyance. Pain. Fear.
Fuck you, now I am rid of you.
This taste in his mouth, the taste of blood,
The taste of wrath, the taste of justice,
Tingles his tongue, simply orgasmic.
He likes it, doesn’t he?
Now I leave you. To die.

God have mercy on you.