Post-Coital Noise

There’s blood on my cuticles from when I went in search to find whatever it was you had in mind at the time. it seemed as if what I was reaching for didn’t exist, beyond the narrow doors, but when I breached the threshold there was red carpet like pedals in a garden. I stepped on all of them and when the garden dried up the blood on my cuticles vanished without a trace. but I like to bleed especially when it isn’t my own, something about someone’s insides existing on the outside is nice, and when you wear it like a badge of honor everyone knows you’ve stepped on the red carpet. and it’s sad that most men have, they wear them like a Purple Heart in cities that speak of war like they speak of God. a wounded soldier doesn’t belong in the garden and they know this but it doesn’t matter, if the wounds will get them on the red carpet, like the one that folds neatly into a mother’s hand. cuticles red with adventure, and what an adventure to love what won’t love you back, the blood on your hands.

You can always take solace knowing your successor ain’t packin’ heat