homicide at 1260

that’s how we felt:

like a broken bottle

on the floor of your apartment

left there for weeks

because we were too busy

or just pretending not to notice

the shards had gotten our feet.

walking over the mess and

leaving trails of our blood 

everywhere we stepped.

it seeped together

until i couldn’t tell the red

of your pain apart from mine.

i started painting.

drawing scenes out on my skin

for you to see.

“where’d you get the paint?” 

i pointed to the floor. 

you didn’t understand it,

wouldn’t ever be able to feel

how much i needed you to.

so i cleaned up the glass 

but left the rest of us on your carpet.

it wouldn’t have come out anyways,


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