Blood. It pumps through our hearts and runs through our veins. Blood. It’s our life source. It keeps our bodies warmed to the temperature that keeps us alive. Blood. So simple, yet so important.
My blood. It runs cold. No longer keeping the chill away. It’s thick like molasses as it slowly moves through my shriveled veins. It no longer keeps me alive. It just keeps me moving at a snails pace. My heart. My mind. To slow to keep up with the ones around me.
I don’t care if it runs dry, like a river in an ancient desert. To be alive means to live. Not hide under your sheltered rock because you feel everyone is out to get you. Even though the only person you should be scared of is yourself. Myself.
Self destructive. That’s what I am. Out to get myself. I can’t let things go. Memories or past words. It’s like they are glued permanently into my brain. Forever haunting me. Taunting me.
Blood. Cut me open. Bleed me dry. Just be sure you take the bad with you. Leave me dripping on the floor for the world to see what a screw up I am.
Blood. It’s important. It boils inside you when you’re mad. It embarrasses you when you stutter in front of a cute boy, turning your face three shades red. It dances with the pulse in your wrist when you are nervous.
So cut me open and run me dry. Because I’m not important and neither is my blood. So suck it out of me like a leech or a blood thirsty vampire. They’d have a better use for it than me.
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