He is beautiful: white hair, silver tattoos on deeply tanned skin, he's every girls dream. Sitting here watching the parade, I can't help but fantasize what it would be like to drive my knife through his throat. I wonder if his blood would glow like his power? Or If it would be dark and gruesome like the blood they spilled on our temple grounds.

So I sit here writing in that grey shirt, Staring at the pile of things I inherited from our love, Wondering if I'll make it back into your arms, Or if this shirt will become a painful decoration, A shell without a body to call home.