Bleed it out.

Whenever I take a shower

I can take account of every cut, bruise or even the least important scratch

on my skin.

I have been letting the water run all over me

for hours

and yet found no trace of any cuts

which should make me bleed all over like this.

The wonder is hence

not how much one can bleed

but how all this blood finds it to the surface

every time I remember your departure.

It is the trembling of these two hands

having failed to hold you one last time,

now washed over by the blood.

It is the overtoned screaming

silently leaving my throat,

heavy with all the memories and the frustration,

leaving bloody footprints in the air.

It is the blink of an eye

which makes all the difference between you being there to smile

and the void in my chest being filled with all the blood.

It is neither tears nor sorrow,

all just blood.