POCKET LINT

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    There was blood pooling around the nail of my index finger where I had tugged away a reluctant bit of skin. A lingering old bad habit, evidence of a mind that won’t rest. 

    A puddle of bright red held in my hand. In wonder. I didn’t realize, in sweet summer heat trying to find you in some crowds, amongst some clouds. 

    I suck on my finger, hold the taste of iron rich thick red on my tongue.

    Wondering if I’m anemic. Wondering why I’m so hungry for flesh. Wondering how long the taste of my blood lingers in your breath. I imagine blood dripping from my mouth, digging hands into body, unabashed appetite. 

    I’m sweating.

    I then hold my finger in my other hand: pressure to remind myself to contain.

    I imagine voraciously tenderly consuming you, biting softly, holding the taste of your blood sweat spit. Still dripping. A puddle of bright red held in my hand. In wonder. I didn’t realize I would lose you in some crowds, amongst some clouds.

    I then hold my chest with my other hand: pressure to remind myself to contain.

    Will you let me spit this blood into your mouth?