The blood that seeps into
Cracks and crevices of rock and stone.
Tile, carpet, wood. Painting painting
Painting the night with a sweetest, irony
Scent. Touch the edge, smear the finger tips.
Rouge the red, on the bathroom floor.
Parts of you, parts of us all, in the blood
On the floor.
If you’re reading this, thank you for taking time out of your day to read my writing. I hope you return in the future.