There is blood in my wine and its rust makes me gag

Although, in truth, it would be much fairer to say

That it’s my bitten tongue that bitters the bouquet

Drip, drip, dripping carmine copper into my cup

It’s easier to call tainted the libation

Change bottles and continue the celebration.

But every red I go to swallow makes me retch

There’s something in me that leaves revelry a waste

Silence thickens my saliva with a bad taste

Till my rising gorge threatens the festivities

The scene I’d cause to spit it out calls for courage

So, fearing the fête’s end, I drink my hemorrhage.

A drop spills past my shut mouth, a trickle of drool

My crimson lipstick masks it and, with a quick lick,

I hide all evidence that I’ve ever felt sick.

Goes on the party as I smile with bulging cheeks

My throat works hard to keep down what I won’t expose

I’m imbibing quiet but no one but me knows.

I’ve ruby words discretion forbids me to purge

As when toasts are raised, it’s rude to respond with grief

Though speaking my sad stories would grant me relief

The soirée’s ambiance is made for self-censure

Thus, to keep the gathering joyful, I suppress

My unvoiced secrets that, if known, would but depress.