The Archives: Stuff about Blood.

Once, I got a bloody nose in gym because someone hit me in the face with a volleyball. Then I ran to the bathroom and got a tissue. The next morning, I got a bloody nose again and was stuck in the bathroom at school for around an hour because it wouldn't stop bleeding. It was gross. The end.

True story.

This true story then elicited a poetic and prose-etic response, which the lovely Myself has requested I post. Well, I can't say "no" to something like that, can I? So first, here's some thinking, and then the poem, which is, appropriately, called "Bloody Nose," because I can't come up with anything better.

I think maybe people don't like the sight of blood because it's out-of-place. Blood belongs inside your body, and its presence anywhere else suggests that something has gone wrong, that you or someone else has been injured. It's something everyone has, and it's nothing to be afraid of. It's not gross or frightening; it just is.

If my writing style seems startlingly different, it would be because this was written in September of last year. I've revamped my style a lot since then.

A slap to the face,

And suddenly that which was mine comes forth,

A crimson tide,

A stain upon my flawless face;

A testament to my mortality

Falls like tears,

Like rain dripping on the ground,

My feet,

My clothes,

Marred by my imperfection.