razzlebabyy

My Blood is drawn. The crimson liquid fills the vile, slowly, as I stare at the portraits of cats that line the wall to my right pretending I do not notice my life's essence flowing out of my body, the pin prick in my arm, the women handling my blood is professional, and quick but notice's the dead look in my eyes, and my refusal to look at her as she draws my blood promps her to ask if I'm all right. Such a loaded question on such a day. I say that I am fine, and I want to add, that I will be once it is Saturday and I see the people who mean most to me. It rips my skin. The sticky white tape the professional women slowly pushe