Red Threads

In that sterile room, I felt so bare,

words floated like ghosts on the doctor’s tongue.

"What’s your type?" stripped me of air,

leaving my essence, unsung and unstrung.

I felt the pulse of each secret, each thread,

as if my being could fold into lines.

What does it mean when my blood's widespread,

this map of my heart, a story defined?

I searched for my worth in the patterns of red,

a life coded deep in the vessels I own.

How little I knew of the words left unsaid,

in the marrow of me, a truth now alone.