K L Ricks

How are love and indignation alike?
They both burn and crackle crimson,
Like a driblet of red wine crawling into the tub.
Like satin sheets twisting,
Grinding nails down to the nub.

A thick residue of grease
That can’t be scrubbed off.
A singsong voice behind the pixel screen,
Begging you to stand up, run away,
Anything to quell the anxiety-induced dream.

Bloodshot eyes are somehow sweet.
It’s a feeling to worship.
Animosity is no distant relative of affection;
Rage is no stranger to delight;
A cracking voice followed by deep reflection.

Soggy eyes have never been so alluring.
Shattering ceramic on cheap linoleum,
Hands on temples when in solitary.
Blood threatening to burst out of veins,
And then stepping back into the cerulean light erratically.