I lay somewhere far flung on a bed of velvety grass,
Something warm clings to my fingers almost possessively,
This liquid stains the clothes I wear deep crimson.

The light my eyes once held is drained,
Leaving nothing in its wake,
They just reflect distant street lamps as if they were still fireflies.

I want to laugh or scream,
I can't decide,
'This isn't real. . .'
No sound follows,
My lips haven't moved.

But this is real,
With the nonexistent sound of my heartbeat,
Paired with the bullet lodged in my chest,
It's all to real.

This isn't fair!
I was so young!
I did nothing wrong!
What did I do to deserve this?

This isn't fair,
There was still so much,
I wanted to do.