The bullet hole looks so right in your head,
like it'd been missing all along.
The blood streaked across your face
like some twisted lover's deformed lipstick trace.
Staring at your reflection
wondering how you're still alive.
Wondering if she's somewhere laughing,
deciding whether to let you die.

"if one has to be scared to lead a decent life his weakness is obvious" (cit.)"I do not hunt freaks, freaks hunt me" (cit.)"Lady, – he whispered with concern, – your
eyes are so empty" (cit.)

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