La Vie En Rouge

On Saturday, I realized even the lizard has blood. On Sunday, I buried one. Its little corpse was frozen on the white sidewalk that gleamed in the white sun. His mouth was open. I dragged him by the tail as gently as I could. I gathered leaves and twigs and laid him to rest. I regret not putting a nearby flower on him. Today I went back to do so but I couldn’t find him for he was too well-hidden in the camouflage of foliage. Even the lizard has blood.

The rattlesnake too. They give birth live. It is messy and milky and reminiscent of Medusa. I can still see the photo in the children’s encyclopedia. I could only look a few seconds at a time or else it was too much for me. I never would look when they drew my blood, but I could feel it seeping away from my veins. I remember the busted lip I had from falling on the playground. My mouth was numb and hot and swollen. When I was younger, I had the awful habit of peeling my cuticles off. It stung like vinegar and the blood always flowed. I don’t remember how I stopped or if I did. Even the lizard has blood.

I remember the scissors and I remember the tears. I remember trying to remove what was unsightly. I remember the white ceiling and the hole where my white canopy once hung. The blood that came was almost clear. I remember the embarrassment and the desperation. On a brighter day, I remember the scissors. I remember trying to imitate ninjas in class. A few minutes later I sliced my hand. I laughed at myself. The teacher denied me a band-aid because she said I was squeezing the blood out on purpose. I gave up in frustration. Replacing tissue after tissue trying to soak up the cut. Even the lizard has blood.

Blood in my nails and once a month there is blood on my sheets. Blood down the drain from dull razors. There has been a needle through my nose and needles through my skin. A cat clawed me twice, but I know he didn’t mean it. I don’t even remember which hand. A dog ran after me and in gravel I jumped to save myself. It failed to seem as innocent. From my knees the dark liquid dripped. Even the lizard has blood.

Red like the droplets in El Greco’s Christ painting. They drip down his face and his neck. Red like the garment that Christ is wearing. I could not escape the whites of his eyes in the museum that day. They seemed to reflect. His expression was too beautiful, too morose to leave. I marveled. The pain felt holy. The thorn of a rose has stuck me before. What does it mean to cry blood? I wonder if angels can bleed. Even the lizard has blood.

I hate the metallic taste. I hate the metallic smell. I hate the way it stains. It marks its presence. Words have cut me before. They have carved deeply into and upon my chest. They are so sharp that the metallic flavor floods my mouth again. Sometimes the words are caught in my head and they burn to the surface again. Sometimes the words are my own. Sometimes there aren’t enough tissues. Even the lizard has blood.

A year has passed since I watched a documentary of babies being born. Not in the cold sterility of a hospital, but in the warmth of a home. The crimson collapsed into the tranquility of pure water like ink. It touched me for it appeared so natural. Life was both simple and complex. The babies and the hands of the mothers were stained pink. They cried together. I cried with them. Even the lizard has blood.

I hear of the blood in old hymns. It is the burgundy wine of communion. I vaguely remember my first. I can’t remember the last time I painted my nails red. My cuticle bleeds again. The blood is shiny and deep and it pools. The cool air pricks it. The pain is familiar. I still think of the reptile. The white tissue is stained. Even then the lizard has blood.