Blood Rust
I bit my lip. I can taste the blood. It tastes like rust. The iron in the blood.
Damn.
Right now, I wish I could just erase certain memories. Sometimes having good memories just ain’t that good. I mean, if you can’t remember how good things were, you have no reason to be miserable for how bad things are now. You have nothing to compare bad to, hence making bad look good. And because I don’t remember you, I won’t remember you saving my life or your attempt to kill me. Be that the case, you are just a piece of white canvas.
So I can paint. Paint you today, not over the picture of yesterday.
Paint. Paint. Paint.
If you think this is about you, it’s not.