I played for a while with the blood I drew. I don’t know why I’d never thought to do that before; it felt so silky against my fingertips, somewhere between oil and water. I watched it pool for a while at its source as the red pigment set onto the skin of my palms.

The red rivulets flowed in slow motion, seeking a valley in which to settle but stopped short of their destination by cotton, signing my autograph in brilliant red ink against the sheet below me. The healing was slow. Coagulation left ugly mounds of sediment which were dredged away by tissue. The air against the wounded flesh stung. It’s only when the drought strikes that the river bed screams for moisture.

I examined my fingers once more. It was strange; I had expected for the skin to feel dry, cracked, but the staining made it smoother than ever. It was as if this was good for me.


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