Sticky, messy, thick. Pooling
around your aching self.
Sickening to look at. Nauseating to think about.
I can nearly taste it, or feel it flowing through my veins,
running this body, this heart, this aching heart.
Feeble. Woman vs. Man. Sick. Growth, age, deterioration.
Yet it's all the same.
The stuff that moves through us is almost all the same...
Your type, my type... your diet based on your blood.
Do you subscribe to that notion?
I might try it if I thought it would make a difference....
I see blood, oozing out your vessels like water through a tap.
Does this work for you? Does this make you queasy?
Can you feel, taste, or smell your blood... without any
being present? Can you conjure up the vision of this
crimson-life-force running through you and me, him and her,
both your lover and your enemy?
That man you judge, that woman you scorn, they'll bleed,
if you cut them, just the same. It's all the same.
Over and over.
Blood. Flood. Flowing blood. Through
your veins, my veins. Like a river that never stops,
only this time it does. Trivial compared to the Nile.
Eventually it stops flowing, the river in our song, our tune,
our beat. Heartbeat.
Would this blood go on forever if only we could build a well?