It Just Looks Like Red Paint.
01.
The blood ran down my arm like rain. It swirled around my wrist like a bracelet. It dripped down my palm, down to my fingertips, crying from my fingertips into the sink. Like little red tears. I brought my finger to my lips and painted the blood across them like lipstick. I stared at myself wondering why doesn’t it hurt?
The blood looked like paint. It stayed on my fingertips for so long it began to harden like paint. The blood wasn’t dripping anymore. The drops in the sink were starting to stain. I turned the water on. The spray from the pressure of it hitting the sink sent droplets spraying onto my jacket. I turned the water down. I washed my arm, all the cuts, scrubbing with my fingers to get the dried blood off.
I scrubbed at the sink with my fingertips, then wiped my arm off with a piece of toilet paper.
The blood is still on my lips.
The blood looked like paint. It stayed on my fingertips for so long it began to harden like paint. The blood wasn’t dripping anymore. The drops in the sink were starting to stain. I turned the water on. The spray from the pressure of it hitting the sink sent droplets spraying onto my jacket. I turned the water down. I washed my arm, all the cuts, scrubbing with my fingers to get the dried blood off.
I scrubbed at the sink with my fingertips, then wiped my arm off with a piece of toilet paper.
The blood is still on my lips.