Destined to red

I wonder if my hands
are destined to be stained red,
if the end of the story
was written before it began,
if crossing paths with you
and all the inflicted harm
marked my destiny.

At night, I ask the moon
if the executioner was once a victim,
doubting if my battle scars
are nothing but chains,
a constant reminder
that I am doomed to cause harm.

If the rage I feel
has turned into poison
and corroded my soul.
My mouth tastes like blood,
I can feel the thirst for revenge
pulsating in my veins.

And though I hate
with every fiber of my being
what you've turned me into,
I cannot hide the desire
to make you pay.
You took the lamb's life,
now it's time for the wolf
to come out and play.