In the waiting line
For my blood to be drawn
I wonder if they know that I am
In fact a sketch.
They’re going to look for
Little specks that prove
What I do for womanhood
Is working.
Perhaps when they take the syringe
And gather me in a small vile
They are able to know
The life I have lived.
Maybe they know all my secrets.
So much of me has stepped out
Into the world
Just for my blood to be kept
In a vault.
Now that what is inside of me
Is being extracted,
I think they see
That I cannot be drawn.
But rather painted
From a million bristles
Gracing the canvas
Woven with pink.
«This is Day 18 of my 30 poems in 30 days challenge for National Poetry Month! Subscribe so you don’t miss a poem!»
That’s really beautiful. Much love to you.