My blood is red. It's not silver or blue or green. It's red. My blood is red when I fall and scrape my knees, my blood is red when I get a cut. My blood is red when I slice through my body. It's like painting a picture really. The paints fuse together to create something beautiful. The sun and clouds, the ocean and sand. My blood is red. It's red like roses on a cold spring day, or a wilted strawberry. I'm wilted and covered in red just as those things are. The only difference is you'll still keep that wilted rose. You'll hang it on display like a trophy you've won. You wont hide it or feel ashamed. The rose may crack and crumble but yet you may never get rid of it. I not the rose you hang around your room. I'm the dust on your window sill. The stain on your sheets. I'm easily washed away with use or a chemical or cleaner. I try to stay and stick around. I'll try to be that rose, the rose that sits for years soaking up all your love and affection. But after all that I'm still gone after a few tries.I'll fix myself, grow in your garden, waiting for the new year to come. But I'll be cut away because "that one's not as beautiful." So like always I'll wilt away. Wilted and covered in red. Always wilted and covered in red.
YOU ARE READING
A Silent Scream
RandomThis is just a rant, a rant I thought I might aswell put on the internet.
