What is this crimson
On my hands?
Paint, or perhaps,
Blood, but whose?
Do you bleed for me,
My darling, or do I
Bleed my heart for
You? If that is the
Malicious case,
Would you clean
My soiled hands, heal
My open wounds that
Shall not close on
Their own? Oh, love
You tease me, float me
Up, and then you let me
Crash back down. Is
Love, perhaps, a thing of
Evil, a force to be used
Against me, punishing
Me for the very thought
Of you, wicked sadist.
Leave me, but don't go,
You've bruised me; if only
This feeling didn't tear
Me to pieces; if you
Could just pick a rose
And feel its thorn break
The skin, see the blood
On your fingers, and then
I would know, the crimson
On my fingers is just the
Stain of red rose petals.