the sky screams in blood orange. sometimes when you bite down on your bottom lip, drops of blood run down your chin and stain your white t-shirt. i ask you if it hurts. you always say “no”. in the mornings, you walk through the kitchen in that same t-shirt with the dried blood stain, guzzling orange juice out of the carton as you read the paper, the juice dribbling down your neck and onto the marble floors, leaving puddles of stickiness one of us will have to clean up later. the cars are blaring their horns yet i hear nothing but the sky screaming.
— n.d.