Seeing Red

My blood ran dry in these veins of mine,
first it thickened,
and then it ran its course,
whatever course that was

They always defined it as what separates the humane from the human,
but they were right when they said there was blood in the water,
and that was where it remained,

not in me,
certainly not in you,

and once, on a Tuesday,
when I grew fond of icicles,
I wished I could slide them in here so I could feel nothing anymore,

and when my hands and feet were good and blue,
I would have you carry me upstairs and leave me be,
alone in this corner room,
with a kerosene lamp that reminded me I wasn't the only one with antiquated notions

The shutters in that room were not without flaws,
asymmetrical fissures in the wood,
unforgiving when it came to early morning light,
failure to rise to the occasion,
failure to give rise to rise

But oh how I loved that bed,
so very much,
it always welcomed me into the white wash,
and let me soak it with everything that was good and bad in me,
with my marooned melancholy,
it ate me like quicksand,
knowing I would never branch out the way the trees, and you, had expected me to---