Blood bruises, crimson on white.
Red wine spilled on a wedding dress.
Scarlet cherries crushed into the snowscape of a dressed table.
Living rubies, scented with innocence, dancing across the silent ivories dropped there from gules suspended from lifeless necks. The floor, once cool clean marble, now pools with a carmine lake mopped by damask and rose.
Maddered hands clutch vainly for lilies and argent, painting vermilion stripes of pain along the holiest of icons. Each corner, cardinal. Each moment, erubescent. Each breath a study in the artistry of agony.
And best of all? Blood bruises on his new boy’s skin.
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