by Amanda Jones
The last time I got my teeth cleaned, The assistant asked if I wanted any Numbing cream on my gums And I refused because I wanted To see how much of the pain I could handle before the tears came. And when I broke my thumb, I let it bruise and blue until It went numb with neglect To see how awful it could get, Or if it would heal itself without An expensive trip to the doctor. He says I can tough it all out Because I am from him, And a visible bone wouldn’t Attract sobs to the eyes he Had given me by accident. They are green, with a little Blue ring around the iris. My blood is a deep scarlet, And my scars are a light peach Raised from my italian olive tone, A gift from my mother. He begs me to take care Of the skin he had a hand In forming, to call before I torch it with the smoldering Marlboro from the gas station Just around the corner. And in a way, I feel obligated to, After all, I am a product of him. But if that is the truth then why Can’t I be that strong, that capable Of pushing through even the Darkest of days and coldest of nights? You’ve got my blood coursing through your veins. When it flows from my cuts, My gums and my bitten fingernails, Does it hurt him too?
About the Contributor & Piece
Amanda Jones is a lover of dogs, pasta, and a good piece of writing.