I look at the defenseless body,
Smeared off your thin,
My fist has the leftovers of it
Mixed with blood,
Yours and mine.
With every punch I throw at you
The anger recedes,
Leaving the fake righteousness
And a calmer breath.
It was not my place to mutilate you;
Just as much it was not yours
To lay where you did.
And as your face turns crimson
And covers the burgundy,
I tell you, it suits you better