Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

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

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