bloodlust ovenbird I’ve stained the sleeve of this shirt that isn’t mine, the fabric gathered and ruffled, lacy around my wrist, now marred with a spreading red river, of ink or blood, I cannot tell. I hold my hand to the twilight, try to see if I’ve slit the cephalic vein that runs from my thumb through the site of my pulse, ineffable clock that ticks and yearns toward desire. She wore this shirt before me, sometime in her youth, when she was a greyhound, so fast and lithe and focused on her hunger, chasing rabbits in her mind. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I say and show her the mess I’ve made of everything. She whisks away my shame, scrubs it with borax and a stiff bristled brush. I only meant to write the story of my waking. I didn’t mean to cut myself open. I didn’t mean to leave so much of myself behind. 260816 what's it to you? who go blather from