American Beauty(?)
It is not a joke. These words feel like razors running through my veins and this blood is on your hands. I can’t. Look at the gun pointed at the back of his head, preparing for that split second when he’ll understand that he is dead. And these images keep running through my brain and I can’t. See the blood splattered across the wall; face the taste of the winter licking the fall. The blood begins rolling across the countertop and this hemorrhage will never stop.