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Tuesday, 12 August 2014 13:01

Blood Knot

By 


At the end, her room smelled of blood.
Sharp and metallic.
Stronger than the burning wood and rubbish
we normally smelled at night.
I never saw her blood. Not once.
On mornings she carried her pillowcase
like a burden
to the brasso tap outside.
I sat in my brother's discarded room,
scared by what my friends and Aunty Manu
said her blood would bring.
The first time I saw my own blood,
hurt and out of breath,
was outside Trisha's tuckshop.
After hearing me scream
she ran to pull me out
the bottle-green glass
my hands sparkling and red
like a sunset.
She lay me on my bed
after removing each drop of blood and glass.
The dry toilet paper
slowly clouded with my blood.
It wilfully carried her own
but was free in a way
I was yet to discover.
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