Blood Roses
She had a long trail of blood behind her - some if it caked and cracked like urine on the toilet. Anyone who looked at where she had been could see it. All around the city she left her mark, like a dog in heat. All the world knew except one. She. She frequently looked behind, memorializing her footsteps in rosy glances. The blood to her was a garden—she never felt the wounds. She kept walking forward, trampling down the road, settling the dust with fresh blood, fresh roses.
She thought she might be related to a unicorn, creating springtime wherever she went. Men wear drawn to her. They stayed around to hear her describe the garden she’d created. No on disturbed the belief. It seemed too precious, too beautiful, like a glimpse at Lucifer’s beautiful face.
One man in particular was enamored with her deathly charm. He loved to lick at her wounds and taste the mortal iron in her blood. She mistook his intentions, thinking he made the garden grow. She grew paler. The roses were a deep red up to her thighs now, quivering at each of his caresses. He couldn’t stop. The taste was just like a perfect summer evening with his mother holding him tight to her breast and feeding him coconut ice cream. The heat of her dying was the sun and blood heart of his own past. Each lick brought him closer to home, that place we all belong to but never reach.
2 years ago • Notes