Ninety-eight: The Colour of My Blood

I don’t know the colour of my blood.
I can feel it chugging along, grey
it feels, swarming under an overly
warm  that just can’t cool down.

I am not like other hearts.
I pump it all from my sleeve;
book covers and endings
all infused together like
a bad joke. I am a rusty train
swooning onto the rails,
too colourless to rest right now.

I don’t know the colour of my blood.
All I know is that it laps its way
around my body, making
uncomfortable waves of
consciousness, waiting
for the moon to dictate
its ebb,
its flow
because,
apparently,
I am nothing but a surrogate sleeve,
a shell pretending to be real.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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