A secret only told by bloody lips.
A secret held in by a blood-tipped touch
of a finger pressed to pursed ruby lips.
Not a hint of the secrets in her clutch.
Not in those dark amused eyes that promise,
from the black and white tile floor where she lies,
that hugging her secret close gives her bliss.
She won’t explain the red drenching her guise.
If your spies fail to report in, you’ll know,
its their arterial spray coloring
her hands and hips. A bloody sip they owe;
she collected. Their bodies lay cooling
somewhere you’ll never find. That enchantress,
your own bloody, secret-keeping mistress.
prompt courtesy of Photo-Fiction #11