Veins Raw with indignation;
904 Words
I flow through veins now raw with indignation,
a crimson river trembling with anguish.
I cry out,
my voice carried in every pulse:
“Why do they pierce us so carelessly?
Why do they ignore the fragile life we sustain?”
The lungs shiver, gasping with every tortured breath:
“Too much fluid! Too cold!
Every injection burns our walls,
chokes the air we strive to carry!
We cannot fight this alone!”
I surge toward them,
forcing oxygen into their trembling sacs,
But even I am not enough to soothe
the sharp sting of human error.
The heart falters, its rhythm jagged:
“I am the drum of life!
Yet I quiver, I stagger, I ache!
Do they not hear my cries?
Do they not feel the tremor that shakes every corner of the body?”
I pulse through it, desperately pumping warmth,
yet the fear lingers like a shadow over its chambers.
The liver moans, deep and resonant:
“I filter, I cleanse,
I twist toxins into harmless shapes,
Yet still they enter faster than I can purify.
I am weary of their haste,
their blind certainty,
their mistakes that stain my rivers of work.”
The kidneys, strained and screaming silently,
echo my own cries:
“We labor tirelessly!
We cleanse! We fight!
Yet still the poisons surge unchecked!
Do they not see the agony their errors cause?”
I swirl in agony, a river of molten sorrow,
My crimson currents are thick with grief and fury.
I taste the bitter tang of panic in every vein,
feel the trembling of organs,
the quiver of bones,
the tight coil of nerves that scream without voice.
The stomach twists violently:
“I cannot digest this!
Every drip, every chemical,
corrodes my walls!
I revolt! I burn! I churn!”
I flow into it, carrying oxygen, warmth, and whispered comfort,
but the acid burns, the pain lingers,
and the body shudders under its invisible assault.
Even the brain, high and hallowed, quivers:
“Confusion! Pain! Misread signals!
The hands that touch me do not hear my commands!
I shout in neurons, but they hear only numbers!”
I pulse through its arteries,
pouring oxygen and nutrients,
Yet I know my efforts can only soothe, never fully heal.
I flow to the veins themselves, the fragile corridors of life:
“We are violated!
Every puncture leaves scars!
Every careless hand drives agony into the core of the body!”
I answer them with surging force,
a crimson tide that carries both protest and comfort,
and together we cry,
a symphony of complaint that fills every organ and marrow.
The marrow hums deep, ancient, unbroken:
“Flow, dear blood.
Endure, even when torn,
even when the hands that should heal falter.
Our bones remember what it is to withstand.
Our cells remember survival.”
I surge higher, louder, stronger,
a river of anguish and fury,
my cries flowing into every nerve, every sinew:
“I am life! I am a witness!
I am the song of suffering and endurance!
Hear me, all who would carelessly wield power over life!”
The heart joins, its beat uneven but determined:
“Though I falter, though my walls are bruised,
I will drum life into this trembling body.
Though pain courses through me, I will not yield!”
The lungs gasp, a chorus of desperation:
“Still we breathe!
Still, we fight!
Even when the air burns, we inhale!
Even when flooded, we rise again!”
The kidneys chant in strained rhythm:
“We cleanse! We resist!
We remind the body that it is stronger than error!
We endure! We endure!”
The liver whispers, bitter yet proud:
“Though scarred, though poisoned,
We twist life from the mistakes inflicted upon us.
We turn harm into memory,
pain into vigilance.”
I cry, my currents thick with coppery grief:
“Do they see us?
Do they hear the voices of life beneath their charts and protocols?
We are not numbers!
We are rivers of memory!
We are endurance incarnate!”
The body shudders.
Every organ vibrates with complaint.
Every vein trembles with protest.
Every cell pulses with protest, with fury,
Yet still, life insists on continuing.
Though battered, though poisoned, though betrayed,
We endure.
We cry.
We rage.
We survive.
Even as exhaustion spreads,
a spark emerges.
The nurse hesitates, pausing,
recognizing the trembling pulse,
the murmurs of organs in revolt.
The doctor rechecks the charts,
measures, adjusts, and corrects.
A careful hand reaches for the drip,
slow, deliberate, aware.
I feel hope ripple through every vein.
The lungs inhale more deeply.
The heart beats steadier.
The kidneys strain less.
The liver hums with cautious relief.
And though the body is still weak,
still crying, still trembling,
It has glimpsed care.
I, the Blood, cry, not only in sorrow,
but now in tentative joy.
I pulse with warmth, with oxygen, with life itself.
I whisper to the organs:
“We suffer, yes, but we are seen.
We cry, yes, but our voices carry.
We endure, yes, and even in the shadow of error, hope rises.”
And though the shadow of negligence still lingers,
though the hands may falter again,
we — the Blood, the organs, the veins, the marrow —
will survive.
We will resist.
We will rise.
We will remember the agony,
But we will remember also the flicker of care
that saved us from oblivion.
- Writer
