I bled.

Warmth seeped into my cold arms,
The vivid hue a reminder of life within me,
And me within life.

No pain—only a thought:
Is this the shade of burgundy you love,
Or is it darker?

If I were to capture it in a painting,
would you hang it?

Would it move you more
if you knew the source?

For even my emptied veins, a sacrifice,
Remains unworthy of you.