Tea and Poetry

Spilled Ink

SPILLED INK

The first time we met, you were a mess

Of shaky knees and bloody toes

And even bloodier cries

That pierced the afternoon like

Raw throats that pierce the night.

Third grade;

You'd hit your toe on the iron gate

And you wouldn't tell your mother because

She would only take you to the doctor

To have the ripped skin stiched

And chemicals shot up your hip,

Swimming into your bloodstream like

Pirates into a conquered ship.

So I ran home and carried down a bottle 

Of antiseptic liquid and bandages.

And by the end of it

My hands were crimson, bloody,

And yours were, too.

Today, your favourite felt pen 

Leaked crimson all over my hands

And now they look almost as bloody as they did 

Back when you split your toe in third grade.

I've scrubbed my hands raw trying to wash off the ink

And now my body, the bathroom, the sink

Are weighed down by layer upon layer of lavender scent.

I suppose you're trying to do the same, back home,

Trying to rinse off the same ink that stains my hands 

From yours, and from your shirt and living room walls.

It's odd, honey, 

How all I have left of you 

And all you have left of me 

Is the same red colour

That first brought us together.

And it doesn't seem like it wants to leave.