the smell of iron,
and spreading blood
across my palm
let me tell you my own future
from the ****** hand prints on
bathroom tile and
the taste of beer and *****
that still lingers.

the door slams,
you heave me into your arms
and we sit on toilet porcelain,
this is me in my most honest hour--
the warmth of skin on your neck
mixing with the warmth of the blood on my palm,
and I can't tell which I want more now.
you're not dying tonight
but if this is what dying gets me,
let me fade away in your arms.
listen to the sound of heartbreak
as my facade shatters like glass,
and I sob against your velvet skin.

soft words, gentle hands,
as you clean my blood
when all I can say is don't
your voice--deep and sure
I can still hear it
just like I can still taste the blood
from my own veins.

now I am left with a nasty scar
that tells the story
of our friendship
let me read you my own future
from these blood-free palm lines,
and I still can't see you in it.