Is nothing more than a warning
Age 6 face smothered into the neighbor’s cat

He shrieks and claws until I shriek higher

Thin line of sticky red

Dripping

From my elbow, first scar
Reminding me: Be careful, gentle, soft

When blood

Is nothing more than a tangible form of grief
Age 16 the boy standing behind the theatre doors, blood pouring
between his knuckles and I wish I had known sooner
when someone dies you can just punch a white brick wall

When blood

Is a safe space
Age (Teens) it is
a whispered plea
for cotton

in my best friend’s kitchen

through bathroom stall

under classroom desk

When blood is a queer history lesson, I slit my ankle open on the balance beam and stare blankly when my coach says, “is it clean, your blood, is it clean”