I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love

How long has it been now? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?

His body had never seemed to stop bleeding, burning, aching, stinging.
This was his punishment forever, a consuquence meted out unfairly and swiftly.
He did what he did, for her.
For his beloved, for his demolition lover, for his Josephine angel.
He would gladly have died for her, but now that was not an option.
Was it possible, to "Pray" for death here within hells belly come rot?

Years ago.....

That radio playing that soft dulcimer tune, as they lay sleeping in their stolen 67' Cadillac.
The seats were still sticky and crusted from the previous occupants blood, the trunk was even worse off.

How they reclined, relaxed, and indulged in their bloody marriage of flesh and bullet, of crime and too slow justice.
They knew they would meet an end, but they would make sure to bring down as many as possible in a bloody whirlpool undertoe wake.

The soft guitar, almost kissing their audio receivers as they mingled in the cab of the car, pistols discarded on the floor, to cool next to spent bullet casings.
They were safe for now.

Those memories made this agony even more unbearable, to have this instead of what he truly desired, needed, lusted for. She was his no more, she was hells concubine.

Mother War, and he was Father Death.
He bred her children for her, all 1000 lives, to get her back.
How did all of this go wrong?

He had plenty of time to ponder this, to have a silent inquiry to himself amongst the other unpleasent thoughts drowning in his head.

She screamed for him.
He squeezed his eyes tight, so tight, tears trickled, intensifying his agony.
He rose to his feet, blood streaming down his dirty caked legs and chest.
He was coming, for the thousanth time, he was coming for her.

His Ophelia.
His Jezebel.
His Demolition Lover.