The Blood Pool
Knees up to his chest
as we sat on the floor.
Tears strolled his stubbeled cheeks,
his eyes swollen and pink.
His left hand weakened,
a bandage around the wrist.
It's edges caked in black blood,
dark like the hallway of his depression.
The gouges were deep,
surgical, and percise.
The blood all too clean
as it raced to the bathroom floor.
My gut sits heavy as if all the
crimson streams that washed over his
wrist and hand,
have collected and pooled in my stomach.
I already hold the blood pool of one frined,
My stomach has no room for more.