Two sides: Many holes


I pick up the slack. There is a fountain that bleeds from me, underneath white clothes, and stains them red. But I pick up the slack. I wash the clothes even though they cost me a bit of something, something that feels like it leaves everytime I wash away the blood. Maybe because the blood was apart of me, so washing it away, would be washing away a bit of myself.

But I've washed so many piles of clothes throughout my lifetime that just another pint gone seems like nothing—and...