Dripping Blood

It drips from the wrist in fading red, Like something left unsaid, unsaid. A quiet mark, a fragile line, Where pain and time begin to intertwine. It falls like rain on silent skin, A story carved from what’s within. Not loud, not proud, just soft decay, As colour slowly drains away. The world looks on but doesn’t see The weight of what it came to be. A moment frozen, sharp and thin— Where loss is stitched beneath the skin.