cw: domestic abuse, violence
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up rolls the blood back to the hurt
crimson rain there again domed with tension
sinking into crevices a fissure once shook

shatter clicks and clatters from wall to cup
twirling ever tight to center finding focus
a liquid clear as insults spinning tilted half full

goblin in a hobbling dip cheers to raise an arm
that snarling grin comes to an end
as the cup recovered by gentle palm

that red and green monster settles into motion
creaking down like timber sawed his knees
crashing like a sheet snapped tight on the breeze
what was horrible is now more of a guest
than a pest that can't be suffered to live

and the blood was never there
it was a fantasy
why would anyone care
about the ramblings
of some bag of strings

tied so tight
that none can tell
where its mouth and its tail
are separate

so just forget 

about the cup
cause the glass
was never empty
it was always
going to be the last
reason for suffering

and the ring is nothing
more than a marker upon that saucer
like the threshold of a door
once closed aught be ignored
so don't start thinking
that men are evil
when that fine guest
was nothing short of the sort
of friend that people need

none aught to turn away good company
sitting in corners brings monotony
to revelatory praise of indolence

that man rises up from that seat and that cup
that wasn't filled but never empty on that surface
that should be scrubbed clean before he got here

and foot falls sound his exit or maybe follow his entrance
a rap of knuckle to sliced tree brings eyes to a pouring stream
cold pitcher of his water filled wrong for gentle father