Before the blood and mortality was ripped from its guts the room was soft,
approachable with ears unclipped;
peeling floral wallpaper keeping itself company and a dog howling at the moon or
whatever dogs howl at.
It was ancient and well kept despite the stagnant smoke that settled into spines of foreign literature
and waited for the cancer to settle also,
Flitting from the grasp of one organ to another before abandoning the house entirely,
chortling as it went.
After the tumor was all benign and we got drunk and happy because that's what people do,
I could see my cool glass basin clean and glinting in the pit of me.
The night, a house maid catalyst, filled the room with its dark while we slept,
and scrubbed the veneer from my eyes,
blinking franticly upon waking, unused to the light that cast an inverse of the blinds across your sleeping body
What were once extravagant royal gold and blue russian floral paper from the 1800's
had faded and sagged like senior skin over night.
The basin was the only bright color left, parts of it a transparent ruby red carnation,
and others, floating at the surface thick as pudding, dark and bruised
I slid a hand into the mixture, wondering why we make mistakes
though it lingered on my tongue, wine does not coagulate.
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