Materialism.

Can't rescind harsh words.
Cancer billows from my lips.
Immaturity.
Drenched in rain, quintessential.
Breathe it down into your lungs.

"Must Be"

There must be blood
Rushing to my fingertips
For my hands have ridges
Like little hills.

And the snow above -
The white, clenched knuckles -
Is a sign of restraint.
I must not let go.

There must be blood
Rushing to my brain
For my cheeks are red
Like a field of posies.

And the brook or stream -
The one trickling from my eye -
Is a sign of embarrassment.
I do not know what to say.

There must be blood
Rushing from me
For I am lightheaded - dizzy -
And you caused it.

And the red on your sleeve
Must be my blood - you've cut me.
(Maybe it's not blood at all.
But you have indeed cut me.)

still not sure about the last line.