Died and Lived.

(Very long. Doesn't rhyme either, too difficult. I did this at 3 in the morning, it sucks, haha.)

Five years old,
holding your hand.
Nothing compares to the warmth you gave off,
the scent of lavender.

Someone came into our home,
shot Daddy and sissy.
He was after you though, Mommy.
And me.

I was ready, prepared for death.
Knew this man was bad, terrible.
Held a gun to your head,
while I screamed "Don't shoot my Mommy!"

You told me to shh, that it would be quick.
Tears running down my rosy cheeks,
into my hazel colored curls.
Finally, he shot you.

My hand was cold,
after yours fell to the ground.
The man held the gun to me,
but couldn't shoot me.

I ran from him,
looking for your perfume.
Ran into the bathroom,
climbed the toilet.

Grabbed it from the shelf,
ran to the man.
Sprayed it all over his face,
then it was his turn to scream.

He dropped the gun,
to bring his hands to his teary eyes.
Obviously he didn't know what I was capable of.
So I picked up that gun.

I shot the man,
straight through the heart.
He died,
I lived.

That's what you told me.
That it was called life,
People died.
And lived.