My nose bleeds on my hand in between my fingers.
I reach for a napkin but all there are are paper towels.
Everyone stares at me like I'm an invalid.
I look into their eyes and wonder why they never get blood noses.
Maybe their noses don't run at all,
Because they're perfect in their sheltered lives.
A life full of silver napkins and metal forks.
Where chicken drowns in mashed potatoes.
And bees sip their kool-aid
Checkered tablecloths and picnick baskets.
Till their picnic is ruing by ants and my bloody nose.
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