“SEVEN DROPS OF BLOOD ON MY BATHROOM FLOOR”

by Devon Webb

There are seven drops of blood on my bathroom floor

as if I die fresh every morning

here I am; no panties on; trying to keep my body inside my body

& soaking my pyjama shorts in the sink rubbing the seam with foam soap

 

I am in the shower like Gemma in Severance episode 2×07

Mark is down below; Mark is fucking severed; Mark has forgotten me

all these March mornings I wake up & say can I please have a break

but that looming fake-smile sadism just laughs in my devastated face

 

My toilet bowl will be dyed red at this point

everything I have ever lost will run down my thighs & go down the drain

I will go in & out of doors there’s this one that just says WELLINGTON

& everything will be the same. nothing will change. I’ll hurt & be alone.

CONTRIBUTOR’S STATEMENT:

This poem was born from a time when neither my physical or psychological wellbeing were doing great, and thematically draws inspiration from Severance episode 2×07 (which definitely counts as cinema even though it’s television – one of the greatest directorial debuts of all time).

Not to get into spoiler territory, but this particular episode centres a woman in a state of separation – from her lover, from her body, from herself. This is similar to how I felt when I was bleeding all over my bathroom after getting my IUD removed whilst simultaneously suffering a brutal emotional loss – my head, my heart, my womb, all malfunctioning in devastating sync.

And just like the character in the show, these patterns felt inescapable. The city where I lived seemed to offer no sympathy, just a labyrinthian relapse of my own unwellness, like some kind of fucked up hospital where nothing ever healed but only ever got worse.

Despite being out of that loop now, I know it’s still down there. I remember how it feels to be losing blood and losing love all alone. But I also remember who I am, and that’s knowledge I’ll hold onto with every new door I open.