dancing with blood on my tank top
threads of always from my breast
shame, a little cough, a little dress, but the shame isn’t.
maybe it’s because of the molly
or he’s just scared
but damn that boy can bleed, divinely
a mouth like his
red denim peach slices
so close to mine
I couldn’t talk.
so his blood is on my tank top
doesn’t matter, mine is on his
I love him
strong eyed and mortal
I love him.