I bit my tongue at 3:33 Tuesday. I let the blood pool in my mouth as I basked in the sting and metallic flavor of the lapse in judgment that brought me this discomfort. As drops of fresh blood forced their way through my clinched lips, I rushed to the bathroom to assess the damage. In the mirror I relinquished a shot glass worth of my own blood into a snow white sink. I stood and watched the string of reflective crimson liquid exit my mouth. The white marble slowly becomes smothered in red. In a mesmerized state, I stand and watch the blood flow down the drain then crust over and dry. A dull pink trail is all that’s left.
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