Lines scratched on the bathroom stall
the marks of those counting the heads they’ve slain
their blood mirrors the crime in scarlet letters.

You laugh
She cries.
Does that seem even to you?

Murder may not be the crime
but it’s their souls your killing
as you splice with knife sharp words.
Makes you feel strong
as you tear them down.

Memories burned at the hearth.
It’s not the gasoline fueling the flames
it’s your heart.

Hell is calling you
etching its mark into your detached perception.
As you let them down
they drag you down too.
But as they life up to heaven’s earth
you go down.
Way down.