Stain // l.p

Blood is a stain.

In the carpet,

to your ears,

on your hands.

It's like bullets that way.

Makes a scar

you can't

seem

to hide-

even from yourself

That's what he is; a stain, a scar that has yet to heal, a sense of nostalgia.

I should never want to see him again; who wants to pour salt in wounds that have yet to heal? He'd only be toxic, staining crimson on the innocence I'd just bleached from his earlier encounters.

And despite the stains, the scars, the sepsis, my bones still ache for him.