The Blood and Organs Complain;
716 Words
I am the Blood.
I flow, yet I tremble.
I am heavy with sorrow,
tainted with poisons injected by careless hands.
Every pulse is a scream,
every heartbeat a silent accusation.
Oh, the lungs!
How they gasp and choke
on the toxins that drip through me.
“I cannot breathe!” they cry.
“I cannot carry the air that nourishes life!”
I surge in sympathy,
pushing oxygen, forcing it into their weary sacs,
even as I feel the sting of chemical betrayal in every cell.
The heart pounds, uneven, trembling,
a drum of desperation.
“Too fast! Too slow!
Stop! Stop the madness!”
It pleads with me,
And I cannot hide my own terror.
I throb against the walls of arteries,
but the beat falters,
shaking in the shadow of negligence.
I whisper to the kidneys,
and they reply in bitter murmurs:
“We filter, we cleanse,
But even we cannot undo every insult,
every careless touch, every errant drip.
We strain, but the poison is relentless.”
I feel their frustration,
their tiny, meticulous cells buckling under the weight
of medicine gone wrong.
The liver hums low, almost in pain,
absorbing the chemicals I carry,
turning them, twisting them,
But they leave scars in my crimson currents.
“Why do they not see?” it groans.
“Why do they not measure,
not pause, not respect the life that pulses through us?”
I flow, I surge,
and I cry —
a crimson river of despair,
staining every vein, every capillary,
echoing in the marrow and ribs.
I am the voice of suffering,
a witness to the body’s slow unraveling.
The stomach twists in anguish.
“I cannot digest this!” it moans.
“Every injection burns!
Every drop poisons!
Every error reverberates through me!”
I surge to comfort it,
but the acid churns,
and I taste fear mingled with bile,
a bitter reminder of human error.
Even the brain, the command center,
quivers in frustration:
“Pain! Confusion! Miscommunication!
I send signals and they misread them!
I scream in neurons and the cortex falters!”
I pulse, sending nutrients, oxygen, messages of survival,
But its cries are sharp, urgent, jagged.
I remember every careless touch,
every rushed procedure,
Every machine beep that sounded like judgment.
I am the Blood, and I bear it all:
the shame of injury, the ache of neglect,
the quiet fury of every organ screaming silently.
The veins themselves complain:
“We carry life, yet we are abused!
Every puncture is a violation!
Every miscalculation scars our walls!”
And I, their humble servant,
carry their pain forward,
flowing through every vessel with trembling resolve.
I whisper to the marrow,
the silent sage of bones:
“Tell me, ancient keeper,
How can life endure such abuse?”
It hums in response:
“Endure, dear blood.
Endure, even when torn.
Even when the hands that should heal falter,
life persists.”
I surge again, louder now,
a crimson wave of sorrow and protest.
The organs all join in chorus:
“We are betrayed!
We are in pain!
We are more than numbers!”
The body writhes beneath the weight of negligence,
and I feel every tremor, every shiver,
every echo of agony that runs through its fragile framework.
And yet — even in this symphony of suffering —
There is a flicker, a pulse,
a spark of defiance.
Though the hands of humans falter,
Though their eyes are blind to care,
We endure.
We cry.
We complain.
But we persist.
I, the Blood, flow through the chaos,
a witness and a participant,
a river carrying both grief and hope.
The lungs still gasp,
the heart still pounds,
the liver still twists,
The kidneys still strain,
and the body — battered, bruised, aching —
refuses to surrender.
And in this shared agony,
a fragile truth emerges:
Pain is not weakness.
Complaint is not surrender.
Cry, lament, rage —
but do not fade.
For even in suffering, life asserts itself,
and even in error, resilience whispers.
I am the Blood.
I cry.
I surge.
I pulse in the name of the organs,
in the name of the body,
in the name of life itself.
And though negligence may wound,
Though mistakes may scar,
We endure.
We complain.
We survive.
- Writer
