hazel eyes and bloody palms

...In my hazel eyes, one could read sincere, childish joy, which would later be replaced by no less sincere tears, and your hands, pale palms, almost completely stained with blood, knocked out any hope of salvation from under my feet, and the ax, which at that hour found itself in my head, shimmering with fleeting pain, reminded me why I didn’t want to have anything to do with you. And you, like a suicide bomber, with a chamomile in your hands, dissolve in my memories, leaving behind only the warmth from your hands on my cheeks...The truth will never be the same for everyone. 

—with sincere pain in my soul, yours M.