The Red Sea

10:53 PM

White tiles of a bathroom floor,

a clean canvas spread beneath

me, stained with crimson ink that

flows from the crack

of my skin—

It burns. I trace the dripping

red with the pad of my thumb,

swirling it as if using a delicate

paintbrush, painting swimming

pools of my worst nightmare.

The cold floor bites at the skin

on my thighs, sending winter

through the spiderwebs of my

veins. I shiver, as metal meets

flesh, grazing the inside

of my wrist. Its sharp edges

beg and yearn for my touch.

The hair on my arms stand in

salute. Deeper, whispers the

cloud that is my brain.

Perhaps if I let the metal

roam the chapped skin of

my wrists and part the blue

line that gives me life, I could

liberate my body and swim in

the red sea.