Clots

It was not her past,

but her blood.

The blood which came quietly

from her mother and built her

before experience could.

The blood which throbbed

with high temper in her forehead

as her little throat screamed.

The blood which dripped softly

from a scrape in her knee

falling fresh on the concrete.

The blood which beat nervously

behind veins and closed doors

with a loved one’s foreign touch.

The blood which churned, confused,

skin crawling with the molestation

and the taking of something sacred.

The blood which began to blush

softly under pale, embarrassed cheeks

a crush walking by without notice.

The blood hiding behind freckles

as the mirror accused it

of not being enough.

The blood which gurgled

at the first plunge of sex

dirty, yet sweet.

The blood which pumped

its ideas of love, morphed

and voided by its past.

The blood which fell for love,

broke, cried,

and fell again.

The blood which came forth,

a stream flowing with the help

of a kind knife in an empty room.

The blood which oozed

like molten copper

on tainted porcelain.

The blood which begged

for the death of its owner

while purposefully running stronger.

The blood which brought life

where all life was

thought to be abandoned.

The blood which harbored

the deepest release

from what she once was.

The blood which purged

a vascular bulimic

of guilt much deeper than carbs.

The blood which built a girl

into a woman

who still knows fear.

The blood which grew,

divided, and multiplied.

Bringing more blood to share.

The blood which runs

with the same failures

and new fears of a mother.

The blood which burbles behind

a baby’s nose, so much

like her own.

The blood of perfection

shorn from her own artery

and given to one better.

The blood which pushed on

leaving behind a story

and a long legacy to come.

It was not her legacy,

but her blood.