The Microphone Impregnated With Your DNA

I was there that night when you, under the red lights with your red shirt, sweat slick and sticking to your torso like a lover, cut your cheek on your microphone.
That cheek, your right one, beautiful and skeletal beneath the uncanny blue of your thick lashed eyes, dripped blood as damp and red as the shirt on your back and the lights on your hair.