Untitled (red)

One without forethought.

On this paper that I'm writing

And the skin that is dying

And the tiny holes

All are warm in this summer heat

 

Radiating red spots of blood and coils

Of skin still clinging to the corners like old foil

Of filmy protection glued in flimsy strips

That I rip off with undisturbed fingertips

 

Blood dappled spots the only thing that's pleading

The rest of me is cold

Tiny holes I push through with tiny fingers

Like a little doll undoing its loosened seams

 

With glassy doll eyes picking at its stuffing

Tiny little strings of white wool

Smell of metal and grey skin

Ribs that end in hot red peaks

Author's Note

I'd love to say that it's "another personal one", but all of my poems on here are very personal, as it would seem. One of my least calculated poems.

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