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Not a Poem
These words are not
words.
Every letter is a
drop
of
blood
from the heart she wears
pinned to her sleeve.
Thorns cut through
her
soft, pulsing
tissue
in the same bittersweet way
a splinter enters the skin
one warm day at the beach,
holding the beat to the girl
in a way she cannot escape--
not that she would if she were able.
For a moment, she forgets
that he ever cared because the blood is
only
an
illusion
of the mind—food dye--
a
trick of
the eye
and she wants to shy this life
from his eyes that glance and glide
at the beat on her sleeve—
she's bleeding for you, don't you see?
You don't,
because that beat is not as good on paper.
These
words
are
not
just
words.
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