You wanted to test the sharpness of the knife
so you ran your fingers against the blade
and it bit you.
(I guess you got your answer.)
But, because you didn't want to admit your mistake
(Were you embarrassed? I never asked.)
you left the hardware store, holding your own hand.
And you walked away.
Down the street. Up the driveway. Through the back door.
And then into the kitchen.
The bleeding hadn't stopped yet
and you ran your fingers under the water to clean your red hands.
(I saw the water go pink and became frantic.)
You joked about bleeding on the sidewalk all the way back to the house
while I searched for bandages.
Today, as I walk home from my bus stop,
I will search for the blood splatters that you left years ago
and I will follow them home.
I like, with the exception of the word "splatters" in the last verse (Stanza? I know almost nothing about poetry). Something about words like splatter, fountain, gush, pour, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera used to describe liquid in literature bothers me. But that's more of a personal irritant