Dried Blood

The hallway is narrow and scuffed at the ledge,

a record of people who lived on the edge.

I bought a small sample to cover the shame,

but the previous tenant had a different game.

I pried off the lid with the head of a screw,

and the 'Deep Garnet' shimmered like something quite new.

But under the surface, an oily, dark slick

was waiting to make the whole atmosphere thick.

The skin of the paint was a rubbery sheet,

clinging to metal and smelling of heat.

I pulled at the edge like a scab from a knee,

waiting for something much cleaner to be.