Is nothing more than a warning
Age 6 face smothered into the neighbor’s cat
He shrieks and claws until I shriek higher
Thin line of sticky red
Dripping
From my elbow, first scar
Reminding me: Be careful, gentle, soft
When blood
Is nothing more than a tangible form of grief
Age 16 the boy standing behind the theatre doors, blood pouring
between his knuckles and I wish I had known sooner
when someone dies you can just punch a white brick wall
When blood
Is a safe space
Age (Teens) it is
a whispered plea
for cotton
in my best friend’s kitchen
through bathroom stall
under classroom desk
When blood is a queer history lesson, I slit my ankle open on the balance beam and stare blankly when my coach says, “is it clean, your blood, is it clean”