Give Them Blood, Gallons of the Stuff. Give Them All They Can Drink, It Will Never Be Enough.

I thought blood was supposed to be warm.

But I scraped my knee on the rough edge of life when I tripped over circumstance. And it runs down my leg, and it cools my embarrassment.

But I picked a scab when I got too bored for watching the paint dry on the ceiling centimeters above my head . And it drips onto my white sock, seeping into my now bloodstained curiosity.

But I pricked my finger on a spindle after reading a silly story right before bed. And it chills back of my eyelids, the Sleeping Beauty's Daydream to a Nightmare On Elm Street.

But I cut my wrist on the edge of a knife when poetry handed me a recipe for disaster. And it turns my wrists from white to red, burning innocence into arctic teenage angst.

But I bit your lip when passion got too warm for an enclosed embrace. And it's running onto my tongue, tasting like iron in fire and feeling like sweet tea in summer.

But I rub my hand raw on a leather leash made of braided lies and intertwined promises. And it's perfect for smacking a tattoo onto a cheek, clammy.

But I squeezed your heart after you handed it so reluctantly over. And it's not warm at all, I would know because it's running down my shirt mixed with sweat, down my cheeks mixed with tears, down my mind mixed memories.

I thought blood was supposed to be warm, but I guess it turns cold when it's mixed with a poison.