You’re the redness in the earth

You’re the hollow in her lip

You’re the red in the center of my iris

You’re the blood under bus railings
(coughed out by an old man whose back shook as he heaved)
The redness sits there for years until,
one little girl holds the railing in just the right way.

You’re the blood on my tongue
wet and metallic,
mixed in saliva
(which dries sticky)

You’re absolutely nothing,
(except scars and conversations
and shadows in the head)

There’s blood on my hands
that I cannot wash away

Posted in Poetry.


  1. Reminds me of:
    Lady Macbeth:
    Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!—One; two: why, then
    'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky.—Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier, and
    afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
    pow'r to accompt?—Yet who would have thought the old man to
    have had so much blood in him?

    🙂 I think there's a little bit of Lady Macbeth in us all. Well written!

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