rosé
i examine the red stain on the sheets once more – shaped like a grapefruit, or like a
woman swallowed by the depths of a voice so ungodly i have no doubt it must’ve been
the wine. all of the evidence is here: its smell takes me back to the night i could almost
make sense of the words spewed by my viscera; its hue sings with the same carnal pitch
that made me drop the glass, still nearly full, on the floor; its lines are drunk on the
whole world. yes, it was the wine.
besides, my blood has been fully tamed since i started to thin. my blood doesn’t ever
scream, so i’m sure it was the wine.
Clara Paiva is a writer and musician from São Paulo, Brazil. Her work has appeared in Occulum.