River of blood
Why do we blood-let to our peers, every trauma, big or small? A quick slash and it all just comes running out.
The essence of us that gave us life, which at some point became diseased, or too anaemic to survive. We pour it out.
Examine the cells; here we can clearly see when they left me, how they hurt me, when I fell short.
Is it because it requires airing out in order to heal over, to scab? There could be nothing more natural.
Yet we feign bravery; life goes on, onward and upward. As if the honesty of the trauma must be matched with dignified stoicism - too much is still too much.
Even when performing ritualistic bleeding, one mustn't be dramatic.
When really we'd rather cry and rally against the injustice of our unique pain, do so until we're made raw with the grief of our solitude.
Because we're still separate bodies of blood, of light, of wounds.
One river of blood doesn't promise it's path will meet at the sea of us.
