There is this inkling...

Something I can't quite grasp,

But I used to.

Now it smears

Like poisoned blood?

Is this the new me?

It dries so quickly.

I wait in the open for so long.

A taste to turn.

I get a grip

On myself;

Rip up the unseen pain.

Fresh blood quickly imprints on my longing footsteps.

I will rewrite the farthest sour tree.