SPILLED INK
The first time we met, you were a mess
Of shaky knees and bloody toes
And even bloodier cries
That pierced the afternoon like
Raw throats that pierce the night.
Third grade;
You'd hit your toe on the iron gate
And you wouldn't tell your mother because
She would only take you to the doctor
To have the ripped skin stiched
And chemicals shot up your hip,
Swimming into your bloodstream like
Pirates into a conquered ship.
So I ran home and carried down a bottle
Of antiseptic liquid and bandages.
And by the end of it
My hands were crimson, bloody,
And yours were, too.
Today, your favourite felt pen
Leaked crimson all over my hands
And now they look almost as bloody as they did
Back when you split your toe in third grade.
I've scrubbed my hands raw trying to wash off the ink
And now my body, the bathroom, the sink
Are weighed down by layer upon layer of lavender scent.
I suppose you're trying to do the same, back home,
Trying to rinse off the same ink that stains my hands
From yours, and from your shirt and living room walls.
It's odd, honey,
How all I have left of you
And all you have left of me
Is the same red colour
That first brought us together.
And it doesn't seem like it wants to leave.