i like the way you spill. she said. he didn't understand.
i like how you stick feathers on your brain
and color the sidewalks purple when you look.
sometimes i seem muddy, and that
can't be pretty to feel.
but really, i shouldn't be doing anything to you
but i know i must because
you do everything to me.
she then apologized for being like him, not him but the other him.
it's just in my blood. she said. and hoped he'd understand.
it's in yours too. i know. the mud.
but mud doesn't spill very well.
until the ocean flows takes it away
and turns it into sand
& you feel the way you used to with the grains between your toes.
it feels so good, even in the dead of winter.
washing, scrubbing. the dead skin away.
sometimes i feel dead. she said. and he understood.
but she never meant to drag him to her funeral.
because he refuses to attend.
because he doesn't see the mud.
he only feels the
warmth of her blood
when he holds her hand.
like the way the grains feel in between your toes
in the middle of the summer. surrounded by colorful umbrellas.
he loves the storms though, the way the waves crash throughout the rain.
because it still looks beautiful to him. despite his fear of drowning.
but she won't make him drown because it's not in her heart.
but then again she might, because, well, it's in her blood.
