Head bowed, hands cupped as if receiving Holy Communion,

a trail of life source lines your inner skin like melted wax


dribbling down a hollowed candlestick and percolating in

tens of tiny wicks forming droplets. Each one falls and stains


skin like rain on crate paper. Creases are highlighted, lifelines

lightened with crimson showing their path amongst the rest of


the world, barging their way through, carving themselves into

permanence. A pool begins to form and the lifelines


are flooded, only covered up, hooded by translucency,

marred into temporary invisibility. You clench your fist and spread


blood onto your entire palm and fingers front and back. The lifelines

return more vivid and intertwine with islands of coagulated lumps.


All it took were thirty seconds of oxygen to go from liquid to

plums of platelets which slide around their former form like


runner beans in sauce. They slip between your fingers into

porcelain, splashing tiny red speckles onto brilliant white,


obvious though minute; they amount to notability, and appear

in places you never thought possible. They’re a pain to scrub off.


The End

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