Cycle of Echoes

Last night, the crimson tide caught me off guard,

a reminder that flesh can bleed memories too.

Sitting in the bathroom, blood on the floor,

ancestral ghosts speak, echoing my lore.

I gather the fragments, the stories untold,

with each drop that falls, an unveiling unfolds.

The faded first aid kit lies beneath the sink,

a treasure of bandages where shadows now think.

Each mark on my body, a tale woven tight,

in the weave of our lineage, a struggle, a fight.

But I bleed for myself, and the wounds run deep,

for the lineage of pain is a secret we keep.