12/19/08 - Wounds

To the one who got shot


He stood in front of her, waiting, willing to die. And the bullet
pierced his heart, in and out, and took her away from him. He lived. It
was his fault, he had not done all he could have, he blames himself.


Each night he relives it, the moment his life was destroyed, when she
was lost. The scar that formed over his heart reminds him each day. But
it isn't enough, as the years go by the pain increases.


365 days pass, and he awakes dull, the only night of the year when
nightmares don't haunt him. He gets up to her favorite breakfast, to the
scent of her favorite perfume, the memory of her favorite things.


He visits her favorite places, spends all day in the places she
cherished most, listens to her favorite songs. But things must be
remembered, so at night, when no one is watching, he walks into their
room, knife in hand, and lays on her side of the bed, he closes his eyes
and carves deep into the scar on his heart releasing warm sticky blood
all over himself.


His eyes open, then close again, he falls asleep to the nightmares,

counting down 365 days, when he must make himself remember again.