When we were teens, my sister’s nail tore into my finger. I spurted blue that’s still an inkblot on me decades later. My doctor doesn’t believe this, says I’ve got regular old red blood. He’s seen it other times. Yeah, other times. Don’t scars shout witness to the time? My O-negative damn sure wasn’t red, dripping victory on my sister’s claw. He shrugs. I start to think the Shroud of Turin might be real, my past doubts of it, foolish. There’s never enough proof for some. Or for me, back when I considered jabbing that puddle under my skin, to test if indigo poured from it again. When I turned forty and my sister said, “No one wants you.” True. Now for your proof, or mine, I won’t stab myself to show I’m blue, to reenact that honest devil’s knife.
Notes
After “Bad Blood” by Taylor Swift.