please see where the blood is darkest on my drawn brow

please see
where the blood is darkest
on my drawn brow
it turned my rose
gold
eyeshadow
a warm amber
and the flash
makes it shine
like the color was poured in a glass 

the blood on my face diasporic
traveling down my cheek,
a bumpy continent
-- like it knew where to walk
from the sharpest point
of my temple
down
not straight down
I guess I rolled a little
on the sidewalk after I fell
and I spread it some
it's a map
complete with a steady flow,
a gushing and swollen source of life
a gash
giving birth

the only thing I own
is the sticky scar
after the blood turned brown
on my towel
hardened but the wash
took it off

I sent word that I was bleeding
that pain has started growing
on my head
like the only tiny flower
and the silence I received
told me to bury the sprouting thing

I lost the metaphor
along with some luggage
that I never carried
and children
I was never meant to bear

I mean to say that sometimes
I feel like a weak vessel
for the world's crying
so
I fall onto the sidewalk
and into the stupor
into the fermented rye,
into a thick dimension of smoke  
And I lay on the sidewalk
and spread the blood
in my attempt to pose
for the maw of a snapping camera

Artwork by Paula Rego, “dog woman”