DISINFECTANT WIPES

I bleed. Red. Blue. Orange. Yellow. All the colors

all the shades

all the hues

I cry in languages that only pain would understand

I envy those that are happy

I am jealous of those who can fake their happiness more than I can

I beckon for my lovers to break through my shield

and see the real me that people rarely sees

but she may not be strong enough to fight the resistance

she may not be dedicated to the struggle that is sure to come

I want to tell her my secrets 

I wish so bad that I can

but I would rather die...

I would rather...

use disinfectant wipes to clean cut marks off her wrist 

off my wrists

off your legs and thighs

I bleed just as strongly as she does

and her pain is my pain

it's your pain

it's this sisterhood

We just need disinfectant wipes to clean up all the dirt.

All the pain.

All the blood.

(I know this poem is sort of morbid but therapeutic)