Slice

For I rejoice

over small beads

of warm red blood

on the white underbelly

of my arm.

Yet, I also recoil

at the meaning

the blood brings along

to the party

to which it was apprehensively invited.

The beads turn into a light

stream of warmth

like a blanket that

well-meaning mothers spread

to cover all wounds.

Back and forth

emotions are juggled

like the flames

the bearded man tosses

at the circus,

only hotter somehow.

I’m giddy at the thought

of mother seeing

the wound I created

not for her,

but for what she isn’t.