I'm so tired of blood

Yesterday, I reached
for a bowl, clean and put away.
At my touch, its snowy porcelain
smeared crimson
as thick as paint,
as hard to wash away.

I know the colors of blood—
bright as my nephew’s
fire engine,
dark as pickled beets
purple and oxygen deprived,
black as the pinprick scars
that dot my fingertips.
If I squeeze my middle finger
it bleeds.

I know blood’s taste,
salt and metal combined
to suffocate any remnants of appetite.
The inside of my mouth
tastes of blood.

This morning, my pump
beeped a reminder.
I tested, licked the blood
from my fingertip
and reached into my bra to turn it off,
in front of everyone at church.
I wonder how many heard
and turned to watch.
My life is punctuated by reminders.
I want to forget.

I want room to breathe—
I want to lose my temper
without my sister telling me
to check my sugar.
Let me be moody,
temperamental, irritable, petulant.
I have a right to be mean.

I’m tired of letting my blood
dictate mealtime.
I want to taste a potato without
major mental math intruding on
the experience.

I want to forget how to inject
without bruising,
without bleeding,
without letting little bubbles
of insulin stretch my skin
into strange nodules.

I want the luxury
of having a phobia of syringes.

I want to wake up tomorrow and know:
My body is no longer killing itself.
I never have to taste my blood again.
It is over.

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