Sometimes I bleed purple and my mommy says I’m pure. I watch the deep
violet slither down my arm and along my tattooed palm. It chooses a
finger and runs its path to the tip of my pinky, dripping off onto a
square of white, waxy paper. She holds the straw between her pursed lips
and blows a current of air into the blood, spreading it over the paper
like the branches of a tree. When it dries, I pin it on my wall with the
greens, blacks, yellows, reds and blues.
When I bleed green, my mommy says I’m arrogant. I scowl at her and make
my own blood-tree, with a straw and a piece of wax paper I’d stolen while
she wasn’t looking. I pin it on my wall and admire it’s perfection,
beaming at how wonderful I am.
The black creeps from a brush-burn and my mommy says I’m violent. After
spitting in her face, I steal her favorite straw and her last piece of
paper. I make a giant tree, being sure it grows past the edges of the
paper, staining the rosewood of the table a deep velvety black. I glue
the paper sloppily to my wall and walk away unscathed.
Rarely does the yellow find its way from my veins. My mommy takes one
look and says I’m compassionate. I hug her tenderly and tell her there’s
no need to thank me. While retrieving the supplies, I stop to find a
card for my cancer-stricken rival. I sign it with a smile and a message
of hope, tears falling from my eyes and mingling with the ink. I breath
through the straw, the dizziness filling my head. Now I feel the strain
my mother experiences every time. The tree grows long and delicate until
the branches reach great hights. I pin it on the wall as my tears begin to dry.
Almost daily I bleed blue and my mommy says I’m morose. I push myself
into a corner and turn my face away. She makes a small tree that looks
decreped and diseased and I cry for all the imperfection I find within
myself. She places it in my hand and tells me to pin it up. I let it
drop to the floor and she pins it up herself.
Sometimes I bleed red and my mommy says I’m eccentric. I run to get the
things we need with a few skips along the way. I get the nicest straw
and the whitest piece of paper and run back to make some art. I blow
with ease, my tension gone, and watch the liquid spread. The finished
tree looks unique and surreal, darkening as it dries. I pin it neatly in
the middle of the yellows, blues, greens, purples, and blacks. It stands
out and I smile to myself…red has always been my favorite color.
