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.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 3:32 PM UTC
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.