Give Blood, Give Life
Name: Give Blood, Give Life
Rating: K; unless you're squeamish about blood donation.
Word Count: 215
Summary: This is autobiographical, and includes no slash. I'm not sure if it's clear or not but I attempted to give blood yesterday, and due to unexplained nausea and dizziness I was unable to do so despite the fact that I really, really wanted to. Questions are welcome if you have any; I'm not fussy about privacy. :)
The tip of the index finger on my right hand is still sore where they took the sample.
I walked and walked and walked until my legs ached - not very far, I admit, as I'm not fit; never have been - and still that ache exists; still that soreness worms its way into my consciousness and smirks. It won't let me forget.
(couldn't do it you couldn't do it you couldn't do it
could you could you)
I wanted to give so badly. Give blood, give life. People say I've done well by just getting through the door but there's a body out there somewhere that needs this more than I do. It pumps around me now, arrogant in its fleshy shell that seems to fight like hell whenever it's pierced; fight and flush and spin and make you feel like many years' worth of aching to give such a precious gift of life are about to pour from your mouth and splatter against the clean-clean floor.
I'm not this squeamish
(you are you are)
but evidently I am this pathetic.
What use am I, walking through the door of the donor's clinic intending to leave having bled life and walking out of it having bled nothing but weakness, nerves and valuable resources?
Rating: K; unless you're squeamish about blood donation.
Word Count: 215
Summary: This is autobiographical, and includes no slash. I'm not sure if it's clear or not but I attempted to give blood yesterday, and due to unexplained nausea and dizziness I was unable to do so despite the fact that I really, really wanted to. Questions are welcome if you have any; I'm not fussy about privacy. :)
The tip of the index finger on my right hand is still sore where they took the sample.
I walked and walked and walked until my legs ached - not very far, I admit, as I'm not fit; never have been - and still that ache exists; still that soreness worms its way into my consciousness and smirks. It won't let me forget.
(couldn't do it you couldn't do it you couldn't do it
could you could you)
I wanted to give so badly. Give blood, give life. People say I've done well by just getting through the door but there's a body out there somewhere that needs this more than I do. It pumps around me now, arrogant in its fleshy shell that seems to fight like hell whenever it's pierced; fight and flush and spin and make you feel like many years' worth of aching to give such a precious gift of life are about to pour from your mouth and splatter against the clean-clean floor.
I'm not this squeamish
(you are you are)
but evidently I am this pathetic.
What use am I, walking through the door of the donor's clinic intending to leave having bled life and walking out of it having bled nothing but weakness, nerves and valuable resources?