Blood on the kitchen floor
He bleeds
It drips
We mop it up and pretend it was never there
Blood in the living room carpet
It's red
So red
We blot it out and pretend it was never there
Blood on my hands, in his hair, on his face
It dries
We sigh
We rinse it off and pretend it was never there
Blood stains my soul
It's torn
It withers
I watch it fade to nothing and pretend.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoésieI'm not much of a poet, but on the rare occasion I write a poem I will put it here.
