How much can I provide of myself before the dripping blood ceases then clots? A silent protesting of my vein that I’ve given all I can willingly give – there comes a point where I must stop. The vein is worn, to extract any further would require that butterfly needle, that gentle implement those kind phlebotomists insert when wishing to avoid me extra pain. Upon insertion, the tenseness I did not know existed releases, melts away, and here I am, bleeding again, for me, us, them, sharing as I see fit, as I secretly adore to, always. There can be pain in the share, but there is hope, aching admissions, too, emotions detangling like a mass of headphones all in confusing white, each pod begging for an ear because I believe some words need to be heard. Sometimes the blood coagulates on its own accord, the flow will cease, no need to be dismayed, I inform myself, there’s plenty of opportunity to scrape that clot away, it does not need to be heeded, felt, acknowledged, or seen. And I’ll share as much personal experience as I can, the butterfly needle now redundant, give me that thicker gauge, so I can make a better exit, Dramatic, you say? Not at all, I’m just being me. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Анна Куликова from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
