On the pink tweed,
there was just a lot of blood,
a lot of unnatural---
a mess,
everywhere,
where it shouldn't be,
where it didn't belong,
in the kind of place where everyone would take a look,
and then look away,
longer,
with sympathy but without movement,
or utility,
and I knew they would look at you differently,
kind of like you were dead, too
or at the very least,
some kind of art installation,
to be viewed,
witnessed,
not touched,
not felt,
not anything
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