A Scarlit Night

You need wounds.

Foils, sharp with doggedness,

And blood in the ledes.

Your apartment: a kept sorrow,

A pair of cupped hands held low.

You grind fingers to tine,

Bleed through boot soles,

Followed back to a room,

Door frame, spent—a

Daughter put you to bed.

Said it’s okay now, dear scar,

For you to finally rest.

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