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.
Advertisements
