Not Quite Blood

I dropped the bottle on the bathroom floor,

a twelve-dollar shade called 'Late Night Sin.'

It didn't shatter, it just leaked through the door

of the cabinet, thick and bright and thin.

It’s more orange than a vein, more like a scream

that you can’t take back once it’s hit the tile.

I watched it soak into the grout, a stream

of something expensive and sticky and vile.

I can't afford to be this clumsy today.

I can't afford the way it looks like a wound.

I tried to scrub the vermillion away

but it’s stained the white stone. I’m marooned

in a mess of my making. It’s a warning sign

that I’m losing my grip on everything fine.