i wipe again and again

but the white washed walls

just stain pink

as the blood goes in circles

under my hands

and into the bucket.

the air is heavy

with a smell that’s halfway

between rust, dust and antiseptic

and the bourbon on the bench

drips quietly onto the floor

in a dark puddle.

the house is too quiet

too damp,

and too dark

and the walls paint a picture

of the pain

from the night before.

suddenly,

the house is choking me

and there is not enough space

and i want to run

away from the stains

and into the gutter.

light spots blind me,

as i force myself to scrub

scouring

these angry spatters

as if wiping them clean

will make the pain go away.