#153

And my first murder,
I thought,
would be myself.

But I was wrong.

Nor did I think
it would even be a stab wound.

I didn't kill another person.
Or rather,
another human being.

Murder isn't even what it is called
when a man kills a beast.

But—

to think

my first kill would be that
of an angel.

I thought there would be a grand,
yet ominous,
scenery waiting to unfold.

Music playing in the background,
or even a—

But there was nothing.

The sky remained bright,
as if it were a summer's day.

Not a hint of petrichor
was allowed to linger
as the scent of blood spread.

The forest remained
quiet and calm.

The breeze gently let
the blades of grass dance,

not so gently
for those drenched in red.

The ground left untainted
remained the color of earth,

while those basking in crimson
glowed—not too dark.

There was nothing.

I killed an angel.

And through it all,
the only thought that rushed through my mind—

life goes on.

As if what I did
was not worth anything.

As if what I did
was not worth remembering.

I killed an angel.

Save for me,
no one else grieved.

I killed an angel.

Save for me—

as if I alone
held no significance.

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