Blood In The Cut

I traced the element of the stove,

hot glowing red,

familiar but different,

this time the roles reversed.

I was the burner, he was the hand.

I took every hit as he fired away.

His misdirected inflammation

never missed its mark.

He screamed at me through the fireplace,

I got drunk off the flames.

Ashes of our loved ones burned,

as I dug up his grave.

I traced the edge of my wine glass,

cracked like my phone screen.

I squeezed until he shattered.

Blood ran down my arm.

Pieces of us broken,

ground into my knees.

I begged him to tell me,

for one last try.

He said,

Candy,

I love you,

but this is

goodbye.