You're a blood stain on a wedding dress and through countless bottles of bleach you still refuse to fade.

I scrub my teeth until my gums bleed, but I can't get rid on the feeling of your tongue in my mouth.

I'm scratching at my arms because I promised I'd never use a razor blade again but your hands were daggers that cut out my arteries and left me bleeding out while I  begged you to stich me up.

Your drunken eyes were bloodshot the night you drank so much you vomited blood, I took you to the emergency room, and in your hallucinogenic state you muttered her name, not mine, and I swore I would die that night.

My parents prayed and prayed to a god who turned the Nile into a river of blood that I would leave you, but I always had a hard time leaving a problem unsolved, and the blood that gathered at the surface of my skin in the form of bruises was my problem to solve, not yours.

The broken glass of your whiskey bottle left cuts on the bottom of my feet as I snuck out that December night, and left blood stains in the snow for you to find on Christmas morning.

As I clutch the photo of us all these years later it is my tears which splatter over our faces, not my blood.

My scars are innumerous, and so are the stars, and I would have given both for you to love me.

No amount of blood transfusions could replace what you took from me.

My A negative blood will never work for everyone but it is enough to save the lives of those bleeding out on operating tables with families begging for another day like I begged for you when you would have let me die.

I read in the newspaper today that you were found dead on the scene of some a drunk driving accident, drowning in a pool of your own blood, and I nearly laughed because finally the bloodshed you caused was over.