It’s written in blood. Yeah, it’s written out of love. Solely. Blood dripping from the wall like a third-world soldiers war paint. “Never Again” read the wall. Red, the wall. Blood red. “Never Again” the blood read. And there was no one to view this art. That’s what made it art. That’s what made it love. It was just because it had to be done. The final expression. The most beautiful expression. As he expires face down. Wounds hidden from site. Strategically. Because the wounds are always out of site when they’re on the inside. Blood stained his shirt. From the hole in his chest. From his heart, where his knife found its new home.