Red Ink Cover

Red drips down the cover

until it pools at the bottom

and settles into an author’s name.

It is murder-the butchery of words

and the crime tape of the table of contents

spells out each failed theory.

The ink is wet or maybe the ideas too new

or thoughts without facts, 

but I still thumb through the book

and let it stain my fingertips.

Bitterness has a way to rest on shoulders

or collect on hands, and this autobiography

is full of edged apologies and gore tinged facts.

When I place it back on the shelf,

I can’t help but look at the author’s eyes

and notice as they watch me while I walk away.

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