Story #7: A Little Blood Between Me and Thee
"Come back to bed," he says.
As if it were that easy.
As if the smell of blood didn't linger
Clinging to my hands, my shirt, my soul
Like iron, only sweeter,
Like cleaning my gun in a candy store.
I've washed and washed —
Lady Macbeth has nothing on Ken Hutchinson tonight —
But the sticky-tacky feeling between my fingers
Won't let go.
Won't.
Been to that holiday in hell before
Didn't like the t-shirt the first time."Only a nosebleed," he says.
As if it made a difference.
I guess it does, at that.
For once, he isn't
Shot
Stabbed
Poisoned
Beaten
Kidnapped
Hit by a car
Abandoned by a love
Screwed by the system
Betrayed by a friend.
How long can even his brave heart
Keep pumping, as the blood seeps out
Through a million daily cuts?
How long before that bitch,
The Street,
Finally opens her mouth and takes one last bite?
Chews him up like one of his burritos
And spits the bones out at my feet?
"Come back to bed," he says.
As if that could fix everything.
Maybe, for him, it does.
It's where I've drawn the line in the sand.
Nothing hurts him here, not even me,
No blood on my hands, my mouth, my cock.
Even my tongue, unholy viper with a razor's edge
Has learned to lie down here.
In this small space of midnight blue and brass
We find some room for peace.
Peace.
We'll hold each other until the memory of blood
Is just a vague pink ghost.
"Come back to bed," he says.
As if I'd go anywhere else.