blood draw

day eighteen

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.

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