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The mention of bad blood reminds me of rotting flesh, submerged in a pool of sunken worms and flies, attacked by the stigma of disease and torture. That causes venom to run through your blood to turn cold and poisoned, bad blood.
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Some so anciently ill that even the best medicine can’t cure, that only with sacrifice and pain then will it be gone. Amputating the body, the rotting leg.
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Friends were like a body, working together in perfect harmony. Until there is a hiccup, the heart stops pumping, the blood becomes stagnant. The system becomes haywire; the long gnarled hands of death can be seen emerging from blood. Nothing could be done, but to feel sorry for your carelessness. We seemed normal on the outside, the skin covered it all. And then, the body tore into two pieces and went their separate ways.
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Now all I can say is, ‘Ö Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?’ why must you be a Montague, and I a Capulet. Why must there be bad blood between us, when we were first born sisters of god.
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“The continuance of their parents’ rage. Which but their children’s end nought could remove.”
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Why must death be the best cure?