Crimson Ribbons

A year goes by in a sacrilegious daze. Blood coagulates slowly for three hundred and sixty-five days. Scarlet-wrapped presents prepared from hemorrhaging sanity, for love is pain and pain is an inheritance.

If it swims through our DNA does that make it our birthright to lie? I can lie about a million things but can never break the essence of truth: we are all creations creating creative cons to collectively corroborate our lost time with crimson ribbons until someone else cradles it as a present.