eight, nine......ten

first true love
bit my lip
trickles the blood
it’s timely banter
weeks turn to days
out, pour hours
then true went sour
it bit my tongue
then said
only to myself, now the more dripping red
tongue in lashing pain
one to ten sounds more sane
but at nine
i stopped and pondered this
lips now wet poised
lipstick smeared kiss
a miss
what of a laugh
might a joke be best
is not humor
a manner of advanced defence?
sarcasm
slapstick
some practical
trick?
a riddle
a pun
poking holes
at some one?
what should come next?
so i thought,
and thought and thought
and then me,
a new, old me
i knew, told me
to spit it out
yes i did
i spit it out
the whole bloody mess

bydk 10/14/18