it's all about the blood |
the sun breaks through my window— time to rise. but my stubborn body shuts her eyes once more and wallows in comfort— five more minutes, please, before my day begins and I taste it— blood. punctuating my day, giving it definition. I’m moderately sweet this morning, so I dine before I bathe dressing in all black to take my laptop to the couch and exercise poetic muscles, before I test my blood again. a book, a poem, a story for my thesis, my fictions still incomplete but getting stronger every day a trip to the kitchen involving chicken and carrots— then my blood again. talking and knitting around a restaurant table. Jane’s husband is ill again, but Beth’s sister is responding well to treatment, and her grandfather is trying to steal her dog. we part, minds quieter, but blood sweeter by influx of pastry, my own fault. blood after supper, sitting on the couch again, mind half poetic, half caught in the goose-ish problems of actors, whose blood is made of corn syrup and dye. I chuckle at appropriate places, and taste my blood again: situation normal— before my body rests again under the covers, and my eyes close with the dark. line count: 47 Prompt ▼ |