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 science— despite this, I am a devoted patient, one who considers needles a kind of love charm, instruments of affection, because it’s been years since I’ve been touched, except in this way, in a clinic’s room white as sugar, and it’s been years since anyone has drawn my blood, eased my heart’s gravity, finessed its submission, except in this way— 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 needle’s sharp bite, its rigid tension, the blistering afterglow a concupiscent bruise that lingers (so soft) for days.
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