These words are not
words.

Every letter is a
drop

of


blood
from the heart she wears
pinned to her sleeve.

Thorns cut through
her
soft, pulsing




tissue
in the same bittersweet way
a splinter enters the skin
one warm day at the beach,
holding the beat to the girl
in a way she cannot escape--
not that she would if she were able.

For a moment, she forgets
that he ever cared because the blood is
only

an


illusion
of the mind—food dye--
a

trick of



the eye
and she wants to shy this life

from his eyes that glance and glide
at the beat on her sleeve—
she's bleeding for you, don't you see?

You don't,
because that beat is not as good on paper.

These


words




are





not






just








words.