Crimson tide

The scent of survival on my skin.
Still crimson and it bleeds.
The scars remain visible
The pain resurfaces at intervals
But I continue to breathe.

Stains of reckless spilling
Couldn't douse my fervency.
And still I yearn and continue to dream.

I see myself to be desired
I see myself to be loved.
For my aroma is buried deep within.
It's not the gloss I paint.
It's not layers in which I remain veiled.
I am much more
I am the crimson tide.