Plastic Wine

Red on my jeans, Seeping through the seams, A stain makes a story no one wants to read. Blood lodged between my teeth, fencing away the chatter of an angel, each word swallowed, a prayer unprayed. Hands mute with quiet sin, A muse on every thread, what the mouth won’t spin— a tale of blood, a story of regret. In threads blackened of memory,? each ounce pens a line,? a story that pulsates beneath,? feeding on a lie.