Don’t judge me she says as I walk in. I know love is a puzzle, but her words confuse more than usual as they fall from blue lips. What is she doing there, on the floor, wanting to be unmade?
Blood does not lie as it streaks linoleum. It doesn’t soak in. It just leaks like a dropped cup of coffee, a wasted taste I lunge for, try to staunch with a dishtowel. It’s too late the tree outside says.