Bloodshot

Once, I caught a live grenade that painted red all over a winter sidewalk and called it my Pollock masterpiece. I painted it with all the blood and tears in my body, and my first instinct was to take a selfie which is completely ridiculous but you don't know who I am so it's alright.

It was hard cold outside, like the inner lining of a Budweiser can (which I've never touched, but the commercials), and that grenade was thrown at me after the boy with blue eyes shouted and the white light you're supposed to see was a black shield and I was painted in maroon.

The airbag smelled like wet carpet and was the same color as my chin, my sweater, my hair, my hands, every piece of me that you couldn't see because of all the blood. I am a walking bloodbag anyway.  

Red red red red I am so sick of seeing blood on everything.

I am sick of almost dying. Almost dying.

If you want me dead, why don't you kill me?

Too much blood and I never tried to let it flow free from my veins but somehow the grenade keeps getting thrown at me. And I keep catching it.

Stupid girl.

I died when you told me my eyes were pretty, but I died the most when you stopped looking into them.  And the blood I've spilled is literal. I wasn't lying to you when I promised I've seen it, dripping from my hands. Mixed with tears I tried so badly to avoid.

I'm sorry for you and for you and for me and you and you and me, and I'm sorry for her, and him, and I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to.  I know you can't see into my eyes but they're honest, sir, I promise they're honest.

My eyes mean nothing to you anymore. 

They're bloodshot.

And so am I. 

I'm bloodshot.