honey & lime

Not Quite Bloodstains​

it has taken me two years to transubstantiate you into something without thorns.

an echo. a scar.

the crimson aftertaste of grapevine and memory.

 

i have never liked the taste of red wine

but now even the color burgundy tastes like anthocyanins and neglect

 

the wineglass curve of your name leaves a trail of tannins on my tongue 

bittersweet and gently toxic.

 

in the wrong light

sangria stains an awful lot like blood. 

 

and you’ve left ruby fingerprints on my sheets

left them on my pillowcase next to the smudges from my lipstick

dipped a roller in merlot and painted the walls of my bedroom

 

i couldn’t complain because

girls like me

should know better than to have white bedding.

 

i flipped through an assortment of purple-red flags

like color swatches in a Home Depot

took scissors to the ones i liked best

and used them to wallpaper my living room

so everyone could see how much i loved you

 

never mind that the floor was littered with broken promises

and broken glass – 

call it a mosaic.

 

i flipped through a collection of purple-red flags

like rolls of fabric in a craft store

took scissors to the ones i liked best

cut them into glossy ribbons and wore them in my hair,

so everyone could see how much i loved you

 

never mind the glinting shards of bottle

that got caught in my curls – 

i always did love glitter.

 

i used to have fever dreams about the

version of you who lived at the bottom of a wine bottle,

a monster’s lullaby,

and how you came when she called you, every time.

 

i had dreams about

the nightmare singing to you from the bottom of every wine bottle,

wrote half-poems about how terribly i wished the bitch would drown down there

and what a shame it was that sirens could swim.