birth through blood

there is broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor

and i am roaring laughing 

while blood from my hands begins to pour.

The shards protrude from my weary wrists 

and sweet red regret 

drips down my fingertips 

every chance I try to pick up the the jagged shards

my soft flesh rips, 

as I let down my guard.

and I never imagined healing would be so hard. 

I begin to finger paint with my blood across the walls. 

painting murals of my pain,

by telling stories across the hall.

I have created a mad house where I can process it all. 

Hemmingway whispers, 

"just sit in front of the typewriter and bleed"

and I am reminded of how heartbreak births new things.

Each sharp cut reveals emotional ink,

where I can process my feelings through art 

rather than continuing to sink. 

With every stroke of crimson pain, I carve a path to clarity.

And by the time it is all out of me,

my iron levels are low.

and though my anemic answers,

I am able to sweep away the glass

and continue to grow.