My floors are masked in blood.
I don’t have nearly enough rags to keep up with the cleaning. Or bleeding.
If you call to inquire about my health, do not fret. I am not leaking red on the (fake) hardwood. Some tears, surely.
If you do ring me up I will tell you that blood does not smell like iron or a rusty, decaying hunk of frigid metal. But I will tell you that I get a nose full of an unavoidable stench when I come in from the clear blue.
Blood smells like foreshadowing.
Not of tomorrow, necessarily, but of a day speeding headfirst toward me.
Without mercy.
That is what I will tell you.