Does the river run red?
Is it soft like the burning of your bloodshot eyes?
Is it wrong of me
to want to wander along the riverbed,
hoping to fall in?
Red rivers can’t stain what’s already covered in the stain of something that’s bled.

My taste for danger is never
which led to my spitting of
words late at night.
Only this time I’m unsure if you’ll return.

Did my words burn like the
feeling of flame to skin?
If so I’m familiar with
the singe left behind.
Touching the wound will never let it heal,
I’m not worried about that.
I’m worried that I can’t feel.
Take my advice, leave it be and I’ll try to do the same.

I’ll find a taste of danger elsewhere, away from your pain.


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