How does no one do anything about this bleeding body?
Do they not see?
The blood running dry,
smearing the edge of every picture
she tries to paint.
Do they not see?
The ruby-rued flush,
crimson stains imbued on each
fabric of facade she puts herself in.
Do they not see?
The scarlet tally,
wine spills tainting
sleeves of her favourite blouse.
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