By: Taylor Herald
Blood the same brews thick wire around the masses of men;
Extraction will prove that I am his.
Parallel only by a rhythm,
My heart did not drip with his likeness but it burned for his affection.
Red-stained cotton is a souvenir to be treasured;
A relic of two cuts done by one touch.
Now I see him in my bruises.
His reflection in the purple smudge gives me comfort.