You remember learning to bleed politely in youth,
clean up before the janitor notices, never be gone
for too long idling in restrooms, refuse to waste towels
or the nurse’s time. So when it happened in private,
in the dark bathroom at home as the world slept,
you would take off the pressure. You would let the red
rivulet down paling arms and pool into the white sink,
droplets smeared across your face, clots in your teeth.
With cold satisfaction and a tired catharsis you’d bleed
for hours, never bothering to get a rag, savoring the sick
feeling of draining empty. The splatters on the blue walls
looked like the inverse of stars. All those stars would gather
on your cheeks and wrists and beneath the curve of your chin,
and afterwards you’d crawl into the duvet shaking, disgusting.
The dried blood would flake from your body, so that by morning 
you were pristine again. No one could tell any different.