Bloody Sunday

By Beatrice Forman, age 15
Bloody Sunday Beatrice Forman is a current sophomore at Somers High School in New York. When she’s not writing angsty fiction, she runs a food blog called Honeybrunches. When she’s not doing that, she can be found compulsively buying ripped jeans, correcting people’s grammar, and reading others' angsty fiction.

“His fingers wrap /
around her neck. /
This necklace is /
the present no one /
asked for.”

She mistakes blood for love,

which is why each time

his hands ache from

the punches or

her stomach is

smeared red,

her eyes gloss over

starry-eyed.

This, she thinks,

is what her mother meant

by “an endless honeymoon.”

 

She mistakes blood for love,

which is why when she looks

at her bony knees,

scabbed and dyed purple,

she smiles.

Her hands trace the

coarse surface,

each bump a love letter

typed in bangs and cracks.

This, she thinks,

is what her mother meant

by “modern romance.”

 

She mistakes blood for love,

which is why when he

comes home at 12:27 a.m.

on valentine’s day,

drunk on cheap liquor

and stale cigarettes,

she glows.

“Would you turn that down?”

he says,

“it’s too damn bright.”

She’s confused.

She thought he liked it

when her open wounds

glistened in the moonlight.

 

She mistakes blood for love,

which is why when he

approaches her,

eyes shaded a darker blue,

she does not cower.

His fingers wrap

around her neck.

This necklace is

the present no one

asked for.

A bouquet of

violet irises

and pale blue bellflowers

sprout from her throat.

 

He lets go.

So does she.

 

“There,”

he says to

her limp body

now glowing a different way,

“A little color to remind you

of my arrow.”

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