Sometimes I think I’m a killer.

Not the kind that follows footprints in the forest,

not the kind that kills with knives, swords, or guns,

and not the kind that receives a verdict from the jury.

But rather the kind that kills with words.

The kind that kills without a plan.

The kind that uses their mouth as their weapon

and words as their bullets.

Sometimes I kill unintentionally,

imprinting the feeling of guilt and sorrow in my heart.

I do it again anyway,

I can’t stop.

That’s why my heart is filled with delinquency and shame

instead of a shiny red liquid.

Other times I kill with purpose,

I take no regard for the color, the shape, or the size of the heart.

And uses my weapons to strike the deepest corner of one’s chamber of life.

A heart wound is the deepest ache one can feel,

the pain doesn’t kill them, it is rather the hopelessness of knowing their destined future that does.

The pain in their eyes, their cries for help, as if their soul has left their bodies

trigger the last few drops of pitifulness,

I have left it in my heart.

But I can’t trust anyone.

It is the nostalgia of their actions that dry out their last hope of survival.

I keep going.

Perhaps,

Killing is a way of protection.

So, I can shield myself from other killers that also kill with words.

So, I won’t be the one to be stabbed in my heart.