#17 - Blood
I stand in bits of broken porcelain, pushing them deeper into the carpet with my toes.
Each poignant little sting helps remind me why I'm here.
Each push is a statement. I exist. No, I bleed therefore I exist.
Spots of crimson soak into plush brown, creating little pictures that tell my tale.
A struggle, it was always a struggle I remind myself, stepping over the shattered vase...
It doesn't matter now.
I make my way toward the window, toes tracking tales across the carpet.
Little red drips that tell my story,
just as the blood on my hands tells yours.