The tingling and fresh reviving feeling of a clean shave comes pulsing through my veins. I can pinpoint exactly where I cut myself. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. I desire the tasty pain of bleeding.
When it happens, I like to dab my index finger along the wound. The fluid squirts outside the seems of my finger.
"Oh!" I cry. I poke my finger in my mouth.
"Mmmm!"
It's absolutely delicious. The salty taste. The metallic aroma. It's almost too much to handle. It's my red wine. Oh, but when I get a taste of someone else's blood, it's another story-especially if it's my dead husband's.
This was strange to read. I like "It's my red wine" the most about this piece.
ReplyDeleteI have never been more attracted to you than I am right now.
ReplyDeleteI meant to type "seams" not "seems".
ReplyDelete