Friday Night Poetry Club, Part 3

Insomnia and restlessness can be a source of inspiration. Had a night of culture and I might be trying to drag it out longer than I should.
Regardless, I wrote another poem. Clearly I have too many feelings for my own good.

Untitled

I'm afraid of blood.

Or at least I think I am

Or at least I wish I were.

I wish I were afraid of blood but I think I’m just indifferent towards it.

Indifference is the disease I acquired as an emotionally scarred preteen--

In which "emotionally" is a euphemism for acne,

Formally known as the Holden Years, (which is a play on words on the Golden years and Holden Caulfield, just in case you didn't get the reference.)

I found indifference while

Lying in bed, wondering why the world wasn't any different,

Trying to decide if it was reassuring or devastating that

The world is as stubborn as my mother, my sister, me,

Refusing to spin in any other direction besides forward

Unwilling to commend or rebuke my direction of travel.

But,

What is "forward"?

If I go forward, to the right, three times, suddenly I’m backwards

And history has a tendency to repeat itself.

So the world and me must have a lot in common:

We never stop spinning,

Maybe to our own demise.

Except instead of forward, I only spin out of control.

But maybe that's what it actually means to move ahead.

For lack of a better word, we settled upon "forward"

And for lack of a better feeling, I settled upon apathy.

From ages twelve to nineteen,

I’ve never loved anything more than indifference.

Clutching my poorly sewn quilt of apathy and cynicism

Stitched together by resin treated strands of polyester,

My misshapen security blanket became my second skin--

My only skin.

Maybe that's the reason why I’m not afraid of blood, but wish I were.

Instead I’m only afraid of my lack of fear,

Because blood is the color of life,

Blood is the color of passion,

And the only shade that matters.

I'm afraid that when I prick the synthetic fibers that make up my skin,

All I’ll find is a sea of indifference--

Watered down red paint masquerading as blood,

Too thick in some parts, too thin in others,

Worse than any sickle celled nightmare

Because even sickle cells require passion to emanate.

I'm afraid that if I prick my skin,

Nothing will come out because

Every drop of Red #40, interspersed with my life

Was already absorbed by my indifference.

And if my blood runs dry, then I might as well be dead.

But more than anything, I’m afraid that if I prick my skin,

I will bleed the tears, pains, and sorrows that run through my veins,

I will bleed the joys, laughs, and smiles that keep my heart pumping

I will bleed every boy I ever loved and-slash-or hated,

Every smell that reminds me of my mother's home cooking,

Every instance that ever made my hands clammy,

Every sound that made me raise my voice—

More than anything I’m afraid that if I prick my skin, I will bleed--
I will bleed red hot hemoglobin blood,

And I won't give a fuck.