I Crimed Myself

I went to the room. Discovered all mess. All red stuff. I thought I dyed my floor. No. I thought I spilled red paint. No. My friend's lipstick? No. It was my rage. It had ate my remorse. The bones were grinded into saphire. It shined like the smell of bleach. The carpet was dreary, as though ash was the last name of it's fiber. The love was gone. It was flat like a board in space. Like a tv screen melted by a house fire from nasty sin. The smell was wrenched. It contained DNA of molded betrayel, and burned abandonment. And the blood of my remorse was stained before me. Heavy. I had found out. Before my first 30 victims in a house, the middle of nowhere. My mind had been long gone. Nowhere to be found.