Blood.

I turned my blood into ink
and spilled it on a vienless sheet
and I sent it to through the bodiless
channels called mail.

I peeled my bruises and
shaved my scars
and put it into an envelope
with no sensory glands
as I painted my burns
on a sheet drier than bones.

But it will not satiate the vampire's hunt
For not all blood is equally blue
and not all ink is equally red.
Not every burn sits on a plate
and not every scar can be fed.

I prepared a meal,
to serve the Beast
that worships pain.
I told him of the journey
where I started with baby skin.
And the road that made me hairy
and rouged, till I lost
the soft flesh of infancy.

On the table
the one who dines gets to choose,
which bone is worth the cut.
That one will get the gift of the oven
and the height of leavened bread.

But the competition
that measures fruition
is not fair with its count.
For the ease
of taking the disease
assumes that all was peace
before the start.

For some
the scar is skin
and the flesh is a sin
that isn't told.
And the ink needs first
to become blood
that runs under the scalp.
And the bruise is the body,
and the face is a burn
of the first degree.

For those, the peeling skin is whole
and the broken bone is complete
And the pain is felt
when the limbs melt
to become like an infant child you see.

But that kind of pain
doesn't make a meal
for the diner gets to decide
which sorrow is real.
A broken bone is something to show
while a whole body is something we all know.

So my vein's ink doesn't dry
and the surgical procedures I endured
are no story to tell.
For scissors that mend
are not like scissors that cut.

All that is left is the corridor
with the feast to its right,
and its reserved seats
for those
whose blood is white.