I remember washing the blood off my arms when I had first acquired the vase. It was a discomforting conclusion my mind had escaped to, leaving the room cold enough to spell my breath. I watched the letters in swirling motions, a cascade.
The knock at the door startled me. Despite such dramatic attempts, the blood remained inked into my skin. Frustrated, I opened the door with an aggravated huff.
And there you were.
You cleaned my arms, the darkest red washing away to mix with the blank unwanted disdain reeking from the presence. I lacked acknowledgment of this fact, though I should have anticipated the result. Each time you wandered, the vase followed suit, entangling our souls. As you left, the blood ran until it remained no more, as simply a brush across the surface.
"I love you," you would say, though perhaps you perceived it as a dire chore.
"I love you too!" I would smile, vainly thinking I was happy.
You made me far from happy.
YOU ARE READING
Colors Behind the Glass ✓
Poetry[COMPLETED] Lonnie has been through several life-changing events. The most impactful is the death of their abuelita and the loss of someone close to them as they came out as non-binary. They have struggled with coming to terms with these two facts...
