The Things We Do For Love

        The train whistle moans in the distance and I'm on fire. This morning I carved her initials into my arm with a rusty nail. It was all that remained once her coffin was done.

        "You were in love and it was all so real," my conscience is speaking now, "but now she's gone and you have teeth like razor blades."

       The air smells of exhaust, burnt tires and rust. The rust is in my blood and my blood is in the streets. I sleep in an abandoned warehouse on a bed of broken glass. In the early morning hours when the stars are still out I lay awake and listen to the trains. 

        Sometimes I swear I hear them call her name and I could almost cry.

        I'm not sorry for what I did. She was in pain and I took it away. I set her free. A few days ago I removed my fingerprints with a blowtorch. I didn't even flinch. 

      They'll never find me here.

      I'll be gone soon, too.

      Like a nightmare that slowly disappears upon waking.