Ichor

My ice-cold fingertips

send nagging chills

through my

raw red wrists.

I'm feeling listless.

Blood-stained napkin

like an ether-soaked rag.

Breathe it in

and feel sharp thoughts

become vague.

Pink wet tongues

turn darker shades.

Pain and anger now abate.

Red sticky lips

caress the curvature of hips,

drinking in pleasure in polite little sips.

And it's simple.

No How-To book

on how to feel good.

It's instinctual.

The metallic taste of rust lingers;

Elicits spasms in ice-cold fingers.

The raw, raw red of

my sore, swollen wrists is heaven.

Vital vermilion fluid beckons.