Anemic.

Trauma lives in this body;
it builds a nest with handcrafted
spears and fight-or-flight and
threads of a fragmented heart.

I'm hidden here, naked and
shivering, my fingertips ashen.
Even the white linens look
ghostly. I don't have the
energy to lift myself into the
bathtub, and even if I did,
the water would tempt the
weakest parts of me.

There are shapeless bodies
festering in the drain, unloved
identities poked and prodded at.
Grime and agony refuse to
be bleached - their residue
blackens my organs.

The unexplained bruises on my
thighs ask me questions. I am glad
I don't have the answers.

For once, I'm just as nameless
as the trillions of blood cells
in my body, and just like them,
I'll eventually be eradicated.