Your words stain screens and paper
like fresh blood on hotel sheets.
A cut so deep that the cold blade
cools the marrow and air seeps, seeps
into my bone.
So it feels good, but so good that
I have no way to say it
but ouch and wail and NO.
Too much blood and
too many words to fit
in one body
so you bleed
and I double over
in whatever kind
of pain or bliss it is
or might be
or was or something.
My childish mouth says my
head might explode with the
wonder
wander
at the bloody beautiful words
and images
you birth and free
AAaaahhhh
a scream at exasperation
at how good
red looks smashed into white
How?
I just don't know.
You're the only happy complexity,
aren't you?