The DrawTiffany Midge
There must be a name for it, my sensual preoccupation with the phlebotomist-in-training, some fetish or disorder, a sanguine fixation, because when his brown hands (so soft) introduce their warmth to my skin, and despite my veins mere targets to excavate, flesh diminished to doll parts, blood just a pool from which to draw, an attendant scienceâ€” despite this, I am a devoted patient, one who considers needles a kind of love charm, instruments of affection, because itâ€™s been years since Iâ€™ve been touched, except in this way, in a clinicâ€™s room white as sugar, and itâ€™s been years since anyone has drawn my blood, eased my heartâ€™s gravity, finessed its submission, except in this wayâ€” his hands (so soft) grazing the inside of my elbow, the tourniquet stretched taut, jaws waking the vein, that blue pulse, and then the pop, the sucking, the pull, a kind of kiss, the clench of fist, a whisk of tape and gauze as I descend, become an opened palace, a collision of vessel and nerve, when hours later the results appear: the needleâ€™s sharp bite, its rigid tension, the blistering afterglow a concupiscent bruise that lingers (so soft) for days.
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