April 30, 2014 by thewordverve Blood Blood. My soul cannot possibly bleed any more rhythmically through my skin, over my hair, to my clothes, to the ground, clinging everywhere, every moment, looking at me, every droplet: “What now?” Go, I say. Go. I can’t help you now. Share this:ShareFacebookTwitterLinkedInPinterestTumblrRedditPrintEmailLike this:Like Loading...