Blood. Blood. Blood.


    Runs its course through our veins,


    Trickles down our slit wrists.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Blood. Blood. Blood.


    The epitome of life,


    Death,


    Arousal.


    Thieves coat their hands in lambs blood,


    Hiding their scent from the huntsman.


    Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.


    Everything’s wrong.


    I want to start over.