A Crime of Passion
It took a second. A single second and he was gone,
I struck him once. Twice. Three times. I can’t really remember.
All I remember is the stench of deceit that lingered in the air afterwards,
An aroma that was too familiar to me since that last December.
I acted fast.
I seized the suitcase. It clung to the last memories we had
A memory of affliction and treachery. Of lies he spun to get out of his
Deception. He was mine. But he wasn’t.
For his gaze seemed to wander, and it caused a sudden chill of jealousy;
to run down my bruised and battered spine.
But now these reminiscences of a tarnished and forgotten vacation; would be
vandalised by the blood of the man I once loved. Or maybe still do.
But I don’t regret it. I don’t think I ever will.
I don’t think I ever should.
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