Murdered:

Sitting here with blood on my face,

Blood on my hands,

All of it yours

Breaking in this moment,

And I wish I could change

What I've become

But I can't change the past

No matter how I wish

The past has been written

The future is yet to be written,

I look at this crimson life

Upon my skin,

Your cooling flesh

On this ground

I see the streams

Of blood from your body

But can't remember making

The slices in your flesh

I feel this cooling, wet crimson

On my hands, on my face

And I feel the guilt that comes with it

But I don't remember doing it

I look at that corpse that is yours

And wonder why I would hurt you

But I look around and

Find two others

Covered in the same blood

And I wonder which of us

Truly did this

Which of us killed you?

Why will the dead not point a finger?

But as I see the blood upon us all

I know where the blame truly lies.