Bleed

When I first met him,

my nails dug deep into my palms

and I bled.

I bled a lot.

In my dreams,

in my room,

and when I went on the train.

It stained my clothes

and exhausted me.

So I bandaged myself up

with stitches and gauze.

I couldn’t feel his touch,

couldn’t hear his breath on my ear,

and couldn’t taste his lips.

So I said to my lover at last,

“I’m letting it go,”

and I bled for him.

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