It is this is and this.
The tide washes crimson, the flood of your fury washed in iron,
and oh, my lover, how the color molds to fit you.
Though it should not.
Hands on my face rise in the morning to wield death.
I thought, then, that you could not, would not kill,
for your hands loved me so tenderly.
Blood on your face, tangled in your hair,
when did crimson begin to suit you so well?
You grin like a wolf, then, and I am caged in it.
I am breathless as I beg for you to take me, those hands
wearing me down until I feel as if I am raw.
My smile is a gaping wound, crimson lashed on brown,
the tide licking my feet like a hungry dog
as tears dry with salt.
I wept for you.
I will always weep for you, my love.
Turn over to me.
I will brush your wings, shine your halo,
hold your feet as you are lifted to Heaven.
And when you ascend, I will kneel until you return.
Until I bleed.
As I always have.
- “Red Tide” (E.B.)