Our every conversation is a bloodbath:
I wrench words from my mouth

like I’m pulling teeth,
violent in my attempt to form

the ever-elusive perfect sentence, to illustrate
both my ambiguous brilliance and my appetite

for deconstruction. Each syllable
brings forth a scarlet cascade

that sullies us both: I apologise for ruining
your spotless white shirt. Covered in my blood you look

unbecoming; it seems duller,
weaker than it does on the nights

I make blood pacts with myself,
the slices in my fingertips a reminder

of what it hurts to repeat. Soon
I will clean the porcelain and adopt

a prudent smile. Soon
you will be able to wear

a white shirt again.