(I promise, one day I’ll do something other than a tritina or a sestina. A sonnet, maybe. Anyway, this was written because my sickness at the start of this year was a seizure where I bashed my nose in. It’s still healing, and it still bleeds, inspiring this poem.)
The scarlet shows vivid on the tissue, staining the pureness of the white,
And soaking into each groove and trench of my fingers, leaving red along my skin,
As I try to stem the blood, the tide, the pain, the pulse.
It’s red as my heart, as my arteries, as my muscles, my pulse;
And I’m left looking as if I were the one coming out the wrong end of a fight.
Still, the flow is not thick; just a spatter, a stain, merely a thin
Edge along the paper, as I hold it against the throbbing skin
Of my face. Lub-dub, lub-dub, it thrums in pain with the beat of my pulse
And I think, idly, that my mother, long ago, was right;
Her statement rings in my pulse along my skin: girls should not fight with their own bodies.