Aftermath

The Other Half lives,

on a cold dark bank,

breaking through glass,

then stealing away.

The crime was never yours,

but it's your hands stained,

Cut on shards,

that you yourself made.

And the Other Piece writhing through

drops you to your knees,

And it wasn't... isn't really you

but a marionette on strings.

Yes it wasn't... isn't really you,

but it matters none to me.

Your Other Half may have made the stain

but it's my back that bleeds.

Author's Note

It has a bit of an odd rhythm to me, let me know if that actually translates or if it comes across tangled. Thanks.