there is the red that appears

so very sinister against spartan white.

as it forms in perfect circles

fluid drops of both thin and clear,

flowing thick and red,

sometimes merging

like cancerous cells that evolve,

like bitterness that grows

which seems to never cease.

but why do they seem to be

upon a closer look

like rose petals showering the tiles.

yet the hand that flings

the petals to the ground

with a burning rage

so strong

so fearful

now tousles my hair affectionately.

still now I cringe

shrinking from such hand

one I cannot trust,

lest I cannot predict.

for today I cannot tell

as one can never do

whether rage will blind love

or love will quell rage.



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