February 22, 2012

• 50 - Blood is the coming of age

  Most times people will comment, "your nose is bleeding,"

  but this time no one takes the effort to say a word

  and for a while I didn't notice.

  And because nosebleeds don't seem to hurt,

  letting me run like a faulty faucet

  is permissible.

  But for a while I didn't notice

  as I bestrew each interaction with my wound.

  And blood is disgusting--it smells and stains,

  and smears my face until it's unkissable.

  I can't wash it off, because it doesn't dry and crust.

  It renews and remains fresh, crimson at its finest.

   

   

  A girl told me to look at hers and demanded that I recognize her pain.

  And I finally noticed

  the horror right beneath my nose.

  Stains and splatters

  soaked to the skin through my clothes.

  And it's true, it does hurt.

  This time I failed to avert even with my best effort

  even if I did understand.

  But I didn't understand just didn't understand

  that the blow of an unwanted, probing hand

  hurts more than a physical, condemnable strike.

  We know that an unjust power structure over the years can ravage a nation.

  Who knew than an unjust power structure between two people

  can turn innocent admiration

  into cold calculation

  and eliminate all wonder and ambivalence towards domination.

  We don't like being puppets, being used,

  but some don't have to accept being refused.

  It's hard, and I never understood, was oblivious

  until manhood ended my girlhood,

  and though the bruises of evidence are gone,

  I've been banished into weak womanhood.

   

  It's hard and I'm back to not understanding.

  It's my fault for having broken vessles.

  It's my fault for accepting drink from someone stronger,

  but I never expected the impending wrestle.

  What will stop the nosebleed?

  Then, how do I clean this soul that has been bloodied?

  • 11:37 am
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