Lines of Red
Red.
What is the first thing you think?
Maybe love.
Maybe anger.
Maybe blood.
Do you dread to hear the word red?
And remember the first time you bled,
In your bed,
Where you fed your death bed,
And fled the thread ahead?
Is it the lines of red you remember?
Those small beads of life on your skin?
That unscrewed pencil sharper?
?
They ask me.
I say,
Be happy you don’t know.
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