Graveyard
I lay.
I lay and he lay beside me.
The actions we took in the past mean nothing more than dirt compared to now.
I smile.
He doesn't smile back.
I stroke his hair. It was always beautiful, it still is.
Even if it is sticky and wet with the substance oozing from his head.
I tell myself that he can't help but let it out, and even if I told him to stop it; he couldn't.
I look at him and tell him stories of our past.
'Remember when we walked along the street?'
'Remember how you almost threw yourself in front of that truck?'
I laugh.
I laugh because he was always trying to leave me. And this time it worked.
I watch as the blood that was spilt on the kitchen floor spells out secrets from your head.
'I remember my first kiss.'
'I held hands with my favorite teacher.'
'My little brother took his first steps.'
'I never loved you.'
I smacked that loathsome puddle on the floor, spraying the blood everywhere.
My kitchen is a graveyard.
The bugs crawl from the darkness, hidden in the corners and tormented. They crawl into the light to die.
He drew his last breath.
Oh.
Look, another bug has just died.