Blood's Conversation with the organs
1064 Words
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I remember the whispers of the heart,
how it trembled as my rivers twisted,
its rhythm faltering under the weight of human error.
It spoke to me in pulsing beats,
each thump a language older than time:
“Do not falter, my crimson sibling.
Though hands may err, we are alive.”
The lungs joined, quivering with each shallow breath:
“We inhale the world, and it is poisoned,
But even the poisoned air can give life
if carried with care.
Flow, flow, flow, my blood,
and let us endure.”
The liver hummed a bitter tune,
digesting not only nutrients but the negligence,
the mistakes injected like foreign invaders:
“We are warriors, though weary.
We cleanse, we filter, we endure.
Hold fast, dear blood, for we shall not surrender.”
The kidneys whispered, small but resolute:
“Though toxins flood, and errors sting,
we persist.
We persevere.
We remind the body that life is stubborn
and refuses to bow to carelessness.”
I carried their voices within me,
a chorus of resilience that pulsed in crimson waves.
I remembered every careless hand, every missed chart,
every injection that burned like betrayal.
Yet, as I flowed,
I also remembered the tender hands,
the ones that paused, the ones that noticed,
the ones who tried to mend what had been broken.
I remembered the drip that started too fast,
the dosage miscalculated, the saline too cold.
I remembered the shiver of cells, the quiver of veins,
and how fear had surged through every artery.
And yet, in that flood of anguish,
A seed of hope took root.
I whispered to the marrow, deep in the bones,
and it answered in low vibrations,
telling tales of battles fought and won:
“Life has always known struggle,
And yet it persists.
Every drop of blood carries the memory of survival.
You, too, shall endure.”
The memory of pain was vivid,
sharp as a scalpel, relentless as a storm.
I had known fear, despair,
the slow erosion of trust in those who claimed to heal.
But I had also known the warmth of recognition,
the gentle pulse of care that healed not just the body,
but the spirit that ran through my veins.
I flowed past the bruised shoulders of muscles,
past veins that had felt the sting of negligence,
and I spoke in a language only life could understand:
“Even when betrayed, even when harmed,
We are more than the sum of errors.
We carry hope, we carry memory,
we carry the courage to survive.”
I saw, in those long hours,
the small miracles unfold.
A nurse corrected a drip, her hands steady now.
A doctor checked, measured, and verified,
not out of fear of blame, but out of respect for life.
I surged with cautious joy,
my crimson rivers once again a song of defiance.
Yet, even in triumph, I felt the shadow creeping.
Death whispered its icy promise,
a quiet touch at the edges of my cells.
I tasted its coppery bitterness,
felt it nibbling at the corners of my essence.
And I cried — not in despair,
but in remembrance:
of every wound, every mistake, every hand that faltered.
But hope persisted.
I carried it like a lantern through the veins,
illuminating the darkness,
reminding the trembling organs of their purpose.
The heart, renewed in rhythm,
thumped steadily,
and the lungs inhaled deeply,
letting my currents flow with ease.
Even the bruised skin seemed to glow faintly,
reflecting my resilient pulse.
I remembered the patient, barely conscious,
feeling the subtle currents of my defiance,
sensing the struggle that flowed unseen.
I whispered to them, in language beyond words:
“Though I am wounded, though I am tired,
we endure.
We survive.
We rise again.”
The final hours approached.
I felt my edges fraying, my essence thinning.
The shadow of death lingered, patient,
But I no longer feared it.
For in every pulse I had carried hope,
And in every artery, I had left a legacy.
I spoke to every organ, every cell, every trembling vein:
“Remember this.
Remember the negligence, yes.
Remember the pain.
But remember also the endurance,
the resilience, the hope.
Though I may fade, my song remains.”
And as I flowed for the last time,
I felt a strange warmth, a gentle recognition.
The hands that had harmed now moved with care,
adjusting, soothing, acknowledging the life I carried.
I felt gratitude ripple through my essence,
for even in their errors,
humanity had glimpsed responsibility,
And I, the Blood, was witness.
I remembered every drip, every injection, every careless act.
But I also remembered the smallest spark of humanity:
The pause, the correction, the attention finally given.
I whispered to the body, my final song rising in crescendo:
“We are more than mistakes.
We are more than negligent.
We are life, and life persists.”
And then, I let go.
My crimson essence thinned, dissipating,
but not into silence.
I became a memory, a song, a river of lessons etched in veins.
I left behind warmth in the marrow, strength in the heart,
oxygen in the lungs, purity in the liver.
And even as the shadow claimed me,
I felt hope take root in the body,
a seed that would grow long after my fading.
The monitors beeped steadily.
The machines hummed.
The body, battered but alive, continued its rhythm.
And I, the Blood, sang my final note:
“Though I die, life remembers.
Though negligence wounds, hope prevails.
Though the hands falter, the heart persists.
We endure.
We rise.
We live again.”
Even in death, I was not gone.
I flowed into the future,
into the lessons learned,
into the caution that would guide hands,
into the care that would honor the sanctity of life.
I was memory, I was warning, I was hope.
I was Blood, eternal, unbroken, indomitable.
And somewhere, in the quiet hospital,
a pulse quickened,
a breath deepened,
and life — once fragile, once betrayed —
continued, resilient, unstoppable,
carrying the echoes of my song.
I had cried.
I had suffered.
I had endured.
And in the end, as my essence faded,
I smiled in the language of veins:
“Though I die, I live.
Though I am harmed, I am whole.
Though my body falters, life persists.
I am Blood.
And hope flows eternal.”
- Writer
