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.
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