She killed with three, four, five shots. She killed with skilled fingers and bony hands and she held a gun that was much too heavy and aimed for their heads. He held her in place, told her to stay, but let her go and waited, and she came back with love in the form of spirals and blonde hair and distressing souls.

She came back with love and he took her in and into his arms and into his heart but she was always there, right from the start.

Her bones, though, her bones screamed and roses grew out of her ribs and her smile on tainted lips drew him in, robbed him out of his peace. When everything was alright, when her body had stopped shaking, when her skin was no longer too pale, love came in the form of life, and she carried on, kissed him good morning on Sundays, their unborn child in her, and he didn't ask her to stay for there was no need.

They had a home, each other and a beige crib.

Time passed, and the roses didn't go away-they became one with lungs and a functioning heart, but love came again, this time as a small kick from the inside of her belly and she made him feel it, shook under the look of bewilderment on his face, and melted when he cried.

"I love you."

And so did she, but love went away on a sunny day, when she woke up screaming and in pain, the blood on her sheets, the blood on her clothes, the blood was everywhere, warm, red blood, love went away away and away and she lost life and this time when he cried, she did not melt.

(but there was a hole inside of her so big and deep a thousand souls could fit in there)

Yet, when they threw away the crib, he took her in and into his arms and into his heart but she was always there, right from the start.

"I love you."

(the roses on her ribs withered, poisoned the lungs and broke her heart, but then she grew pretty clean daisies out of roses and out of heartache and out of red)

She held him tight and waited for life to grow inside her again.

Her heart was beating.

He waited with her.