Cut Me.

Cut me.
Just below the surface of my skin, but just above the blue of my vein. I want to see my veins.
I want to see the rich red ruby of the blood as it slips around my wrist guided by gravity.
I want to see it drip down to my white sneakers, heavy drops weighed down by guilt, I mean provocation, I mean victim. Weighed down by sin.
Peel back the layers of my identity, I mean skin, I want to see my veins.
Are they as blue as when they were hidden, captured, protected from the world? Are they as alive in exposure to the world? Or are they now dead because of the exposure to the world?
I want to see my veins.
I want you to cut me so that I can see my veins.
I want to know if there are only 2 veins in my arm that intertwine in themselves to form those that I see in my hand. Or if there are many individual veins, just minding their pulsating business, and really – glowing from doing that. Telling the other veins, the secret to how they’re so blue and visible, how they have so much energy because they’re in their own lane. How they have so much guilt, I mean blood, rushing in them. How do I have so much blood on hands, I mean in my veins.
So much blood on my hands. How did I get blood on my hands; it wasn’t even that deep. They weren’t even talking about me. Merely mentioned a person with anxiety. And mine convinced the voices in my head that they were talking about me.
It wasn’t even that deep.
But they gave the girl with the tremors the knife. And somehow it didn’t go just below my skin, but just above the blue of my vein. Somehow, I got cut deeper than I meant to. I think I wanted to cut out my guilt. Cut out the label victim from my vocabulary. But even then, I only managed to go deep enough to cut out the word broken instead. And now I just replaced broken with dead.
How is there so much blood on my hands.
I just wanted to see my veins.
But at least mama can see my veins now too.
And the blood on my hands.
Categories Poetry

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