It looked like blood.
The strawberry topping.
I forgot how pretty the color of my blood was.
Its been a while since I've seen my blood.
I didn't think I missed it.
I thought I was okay.
I poured the strawberry topping on my wrist.
It looked nice.
I let it run down.
It looks nicer.
I take my finger and wipe up the drops end so that it wouldn't drip onto my blanket.
I lick it.
It's sweet.
Nothing like my blood.
YOU ARE READING
Finding Joy
PoetryI never spent time seeking joy. I only spent time making a bed comfortable enough in sadness to bare it. Now, I'll see and work at finding joy. This is a continuation of "We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human".
