The Scarlett Locket

What would I care

if you dipped the bristles

and dripped me in the prettiest of hues?

It’s the sorrow, honey

that washed up in the blue

of the ocean that night-

I pace that sand

clutching the shells,

spilling the blood.

Can I ask?

Or is this a screaming match?

It’s slipping through my hands

‎

still.