Viscous Circle

These guilty tears won’t wash away the blood
even though I scrub the stains away;
I really ought to stop: I should, I should.

My knife stuck through her throat—she understood
I loved her in my funny sort of way
—but guilty tears won’t wash away the blood.

And still alive, she gargled through the flood
of gore: I know for sure she heard me say;
“I really ought to stop. I should, I should.”

Though sweet that look of terror was, I could
not watch her writhing in her negligee
though guilty tears won’t wash away the blood.

The sight of each wan sawn-off limb—it should
have been enough! Why does guilt ricochet?
I really ought to stop: I should, I should.

Tonight, I dug six graves around the wood
but come the dawn, there’s no naïveté,
these guilty tears won’t wash away the blood;
I really ought to stop: I should, I should.