My body is a canvas—red drips off of my fingers—blood, like spilled wine. And I am drunk off of my own despair
until the mess is cleaned.
But never is it clean enough.

Just slap a band-aid over it.
The cut isn’t there if you can’t see it.
It’ll heal on its own.
It’ll heal.
It’ll heal.
Someday, it’ll heal.

Because of this
I have found that wine stains
In white carpet
Are much harder to remove
Then mother made it seem.
And that even when you have scrubbed relentlessly at the faux fur on your favorite, now pink rug, you will never get the snowy, cold, and blank white that you once adored. You either have to spill the rest of your wine and accept that you have ruined the rest of the rug, just to make it even. or throw it out. Just to waste your money on a new one that you will destroy the exact same.