Red Paint
After the parade.

Knife in one hand. Blood on another.
The puddle of red paint reflects my own eyes.
Shaped like the waning moon. Something that made you swoon.
Why?
Why no pain? Oh, surprise.
.
At least it's after the curtain call.
The corseted ladies in fainting chairs
before the neanderthals brawl.
Our flawed history.
Or as you call it, the wherewithal.
Did you not see that party
How grand. How right.
But no one's ever happy.
The predators having to sink their teeth into their prey.
The prey realizing, one escape, or ten on a lucky day,
they’re still the prey.
.
Ashes. Stars. Empty bottles.
The aftermath of the parade,
suddenly and repeatedly,
I picked the card you wanted me to play.
Voilà, ace of hearts turns into queen of spades.
“Three. Seven. Queen. Three. Seven. Ace.”
How Pushkin won is how I lost.
The red paint came rushing back.
On the counter, the wall, the floor. The bar up the street with art too abstract.
.
Hi, how are you on this fine night?
Fine.
Got a name?
Does it matter if it's Charlie, Vicky, Amy or Ames.
Wait, why am I answering your quiz.
The chandeliers
flicker, refusing to call it quits.
Pick your favorite deceit.
The name’s given. The body’s given.
The mind… Ever since
has been a constant siren.
.
Howling. Screaming. Left hand, still bleeding.
My senses are heightened.
The bright white bandages you forced on me keep getting tightened.
Oh, my tyrant.
About the Creator
My Name Is Not Cypress
She might not be as good as she thought.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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Excellent storytelling
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Writing reflected the title & theme
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Arguments were carefully researched and presented
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Comments (4)
Amazing words
Whoaaa this was awesome! I loved it!
I love this. It's not too far off from my own style in poetry, and I think there's something to be said about the power of dark poetry to take us on a journey through our pain and get us safely to the other side. Well done!
Very nice.