The blood on my hands is starting to dry.
Some of it is yours; some of it is mine;
I try not to look – my arms hand by my sides.
Blood is heavier than I recalled.
I examine the dagger and try to remember
who stabbed who first – in the back or the front
or the mind? In my head I try to rewind
to those first scarlet thoughts.
Chalk outlines warp into all kinds of shapes,
some seeming to change each time that I look. The chains
and the handcuffs cut off the sense to my brain;
my hope of escape.
So I sit in my cell and replay to myself
our post mortem. My final thought:
are you lying dead on my floor,
or I on yours?