Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blood On My Hands

Who am I to you?

Help me understand.

There is blood on my hands,

hard and baked in,

as if I spent my morning committing murders.

The blood belongs to me.

It tastes of tepid regret,

but gets sweeter every time you kiss me,

rose quartz ringing in my ears,

rose petals in my hair,

you touch me, so softly,

and I let my mind slip through my hands.

There is blood on my hands,

the remains of my restraint lies there too,

and then,

there is you,

your game is just beginning,

and the blood pours from my pen,

a curse is carved into my heart,

I draw pictures of us,

again and again,

until I draw blood.

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