Blood on my pillow

I’ll write poems about you, I call. Poems about the girl who flies.

She soars through the sky like a balloon I had finally let go off. Nothing but a dot of red in the distance, her string faded into the clouds.

The ties that bind have faded into heartbeats, running away from the tremors that shake our cores.

Protected in my ribs, my heart stutters a weak call. Telegraphed morse code, short short short, long long long, short short short.

I don’t want you to save me, but I know there’s blood running down my back because there’s an itch that I had to scratch, and now I’m leaking through a tear in the fabric of our being.

SHORT SHORT LONG SHORT, SHORT SHORT LONG, LONG SHORT LONG SHORT, LONG SHORT LONG

If there’s blood on my pillow, it doesn’t matter. I don’t remember the first balloon I let go, just that there’d be more to come.

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