I would sit down in a chair and they would take my blood.
My blood was always taken from me since the age of four.
Into small little tubes that I watched rise up and down and my dark blood seeped through.
A scar,
imprinted on my right arm since day one of blood.

One day blood was not coming and she asked me to do it again.
My fists tight and rubber tied around my arm.
If you wanted to count my scars they were there.
One from blood,
and some from kitchen burns.
She says my veins are so dark that I look like a vampire.

One day she said she could not find my vein,
as if she needed a map,
She put it in once more and weakness came over me like a snow storm.
I was no longer a strong girl with scars from blood,
the blood was not drawing anymore.

She tells me to get up into another room,
I start walking with a bottle of water in my left hand,
mother holding the right.
Middle of the hallway,
I plummet to the floor,
my body shaking,
feeling nothing.
He picks me up in his arms and sets me in a wheelchair.
I feel helpless and unaware.

Takes me to another room,
laying down on a bed.
They take my blood,
one last time,
and now,
I see red.