The Colour Of Blood.

One errant hair, sharp and coarse and short, the kind that grows back quickly and is never shaved off completely. It pierces through the crusted skin over the cut on my lip and tears it open again, as I turn my face to lick your balls from the other side.

One unrelenting cut, deep and long and swollen, the kind that makes it hard to smile and cracks open into a thin line of red when you do. It breaks open for the tiniest hair and I feel the trickle, flowing down my lip and through my chin and dripping onto the white sheets.

One drop of blood, red and deep and indelible, the kind that makes white look whiter as it scars its surface, like a blemish on a pretty girl. It makes you pause from holding my hair and pushing me into you, instead you hold me at a distance and glance up at me through the tiny little stain of blood.

One meaningful look, questioning and confused and curious, like it doesn't believe what it has done and doesn't know how it did it. It makes me look back at you with trepidation and fear, and a single word, that unbeknownst to me asks for more.

One loaded word, quiet and loud and ill-advised, the kind of word whose meaning is determined by circumstance and tone, so really, it could have been any word at all. Its name doesn't even matter but it resonates with the blow like a crack of the whip against my mouth, as it asks for things the wounded shouldn't desire.

One resounding blow, harsh and hard and nerve-wrecking, the kind that knocks the daylights out of you even if you don't know what daylights are. The kind of which you don't need two, because the one act by itself is already too much. It knocks me down into a place I don't want to get up from as I try to wish you out of existence by closing my eyes and beg you for mercy with a whimper.

One whimper, quiet and unnecessary and hopeless, the kind that seems like the token resistance that you must put up because it is expected. It's barely audible to me as I open my eyes to the deep black blemish of my lipstick on the sheets, waiting for the minute it'll take you to get to me to end.

One long minute, before you turn me around and stain your fingers with stream of colours mixing and trickling down my face.

One long steam, that you smear all over me.

"Your blood looks black," you say quietly into the night.

It is black, my love. Now let me prick you, and show you the colour of yours.