Butcher Boy

I slip and lose myself
in the dim light
of the tale you’re telling,
struggling under its red surface.

There’s warm blood
and cold blood.
I can tell the difference,
and this is warm
almost to boiling.
I like how it feels,
and it doesn’t matter to me
if the blood you’re crying for here
is yours or another’s,
if the story is fiction or not.

All of us have bathed
in the stuff at some point
and understand how it clings
and tastes of iron, no matter
the source.  When it’s stage blood,
it stinks of sugar and sham;
there is steel here.

My tongue sliced open,
my ears full.
I break into air as you finish,
crawling onto the shore
you’ve provided for me.

A ride worth taking,
butcher boy.  May you never
have to tell it again.