from a fear of blood
forms a fear of turning.
who I am and
who I care for are
two things I keep pretending
mean the same, keep meaning
to change me. for a tongue’s
worth of a compliment it
burns, the memory of being
loved returns to me,
pours heavily running through
spit that sustains me,
a hit job as threatening: ‘draw
of my heme.’ but
your red is distracting. it’s
not fitting I should
be afraid of my own,
but as your wounds have
shown me – it is
better to be bruised than
to be bleeding.


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