The act he committed. His hands to a throat, and a pulse at his fingertips. He loved his brother, but perhaps he loved his wickedness more.
The bringing of death to his doorstep. He is his mother’s son, sin rampant in his veins. She brought about the fall. She gave birth to tragedy. He had big shoes to fill when he wandered in her footsteps.
The person he’s become. It’s branded on his skin, letters dripping in crimson and dried to burgundy. It’s in the mirror. It lingers in his eyes.
The term he invented when God asked him for a gift. What did he have that he’d want? The only thing that held worth in his eyes had been contained between bones. ‘Take it.’ he’d said, in midst of the fury, ‘Take it all.’
He was first born, he wasn’t lucky enough to be the first to die.
- it’s Cain’s gift that still clings to the Earth; the race of murderers.// L.H.Z