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‎I carved it into my skin tonight; ‎the poetic burn of life and living, ‎the ache of yet another body dropped, ‎the hollow of detached condolences that followed. ‎ ‎After all, 'tis but another blade ‎in a collection of millions, ‎passed hand to hand by those who fear a cut ‎but love the glint of blood on silver. ‎ ‎The metal clattered as it hit the floor, ‎and then I wept so it earned stares. ‎Sharp. Shining. Tainted. ‎I can't be bothered to be fair. ‎ ‎I'll grieve the silence, ‎not because you're gone, ‎but for the emptiness of my own hands ‎now that you’re no longer bleeding for us. ‎ ‎The world would stay to look closely ‎when there’s no one left to look back. ‎And I'll stay for the casualty, ‎long before I remember the cause. ‎ ‎I want the noise of retrospect, ‎only when it doesn't require my response. ‎Hence, my hands are stained, ‎and I don't get to wash them off.