Bruised #small stone 6
The bruise on the back of my hand has blossomed like a strange demonic rose. “That’s going to bruise,” the nurse told me and she was right.
From a tiny red bud where the cannula failed to slide neatly into my vein, livid petals have emerged, spreading to cover most of the hand. The centre turned a deep angry blue red, before the dying blood seeped further under the skin, discolouring it in a fascinating and horribly compelling rainbow, changing each day. Most petals are now the brownish colour of rain-rotten roses fading into a sickly yellow at the edges. The furthest end of the mark, where the vein enters my wrist has a hint of green.
I am so tired of blood, in all its incarnations.
Zen and the Art of Tightrope Walking 