(scroll horizontally for intended experience)

A year ago I walked in bleeding. 
You were kind enough to ignore my eyes,
carrying tempests like they could pull us both
under the pavement.

I said my inheritance would kill me.
Dad's car, crumpled, pinching silence
through the air.
A truck sat in a field, driver
dead in October.
And now my blood was the proof,

and I needed to run, right as you tended me,
and find my own field to die.
Then my blood healed,

out in the wild.
Since I walked back in, the scars peel up
toward the sky. And we can love each other for more
than the bandages you can apply.
Yet in bed I hear the wind

scolding the pavement
for even thinking of getting up.
And I know I'm not bleeding,
but a drag breathes through the window,
and I cry
wondering if I'll bleed underground.