| Crimson What is this crimson On my hands? Paint, or perhaps, Blood, but whose? Do you bleed for me, My darling, or do I Bleed my heart for You? If that is the Malicious case, Would you clean My soiled hands, heal My open wounds that Shall not close on Their own? Oh, love You tease me, float me Up, and then you let me Crash back down. Is Love, perhaps, a thing of Evil, a force to be used Against me, punishing Me for the very thought Of you, wicked sadist. Leave me, but don't go, You've bruised me; if only This feeling didn't tear Me to pieces; if you Could just pick a rose And feel its thorn break The skin, see the blood On your fingers, and then I would know, the crimson On my fingers is just the Stain of red rose petals. love poems anonymous |