SPILLED jen rouse

Blood blooms like a poppy
from the bottom of my foot,
but not really like
a bloom or a poppy,
I guess.  More like
I-can't-afford-to-lose-it blood--
it looks like watercolors
or kool aid.  Not thick or snake-like
or something resembling the word
rivulet.  It does not look in charge
of me.  Why does no one ever
take charge?  In a way that means
take care.  For a while,
I wonder if it is mine
as it turns Rorschach
on the linoleum, near the cigarette
burns left by a previous tenant.
I think I might be a previous tenant too--
seeping out through the hole
in my foot.  I know things are going
the way of sneaky fucking glass
when every encounter
feels like a punishment. Which
sounds, slightly, like someone
is in charge.  Maybe there is
a goddess of slights and
annoyances, a super saint
of tiny-wound affliction?
If so, let me show you
my offering.  Here, a splatter
of regret. There, a small
galaxy of DNA.