i lean
back
satisfied
everyone seems so
surprised
at the blood
running down
my
face
cascading
in maroon
rivulets
like runny
paint
on a
canvas
people
rush around
pretending to
care
about my
broken nose
but really
they just don't like the blood
staining their
carpets
perceptions of
reality
i don't care
the blood
is more real
than any of them
ever
have been
i'm still
holding
the old glass door
knob
that i used
to
bash
my nose open
in the first place
open
like a warm
comforting
faucet
drip
drip
drip
drip
the itsy
bitsy
spider
drowns in my blood
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