John Korn
John Korn is a writer/artist who lives in Pittsburgh PA.
Currently works in a second-hand shop. Enjoys creating
stuff, talking to people, watching people.
Red Seeping Through White
When I was younger
the skin on the bottom
of my feet got so dry, once,
that it cracked and bled
through the white cotton
of my socks.
I had to cake on an inch
of Vaseline for a week
until those wounds healed.
But before they did,
every step brought irritation.
A cool hardwood floor
was warm sandpaper,
every speck and blotch
of red I saw in the white fabric
of my socks was a threat
that things would never be the same,
that it would never stop.
That deep planted trigger
in the root of the brain
that reacts to the site of blood.
Things ! inside should be
inside. Any seeping out
is a sign of illness. I cannot
imagine the possible horror
of a first period.
When what moves you forward
makes painful contact with what
you must travel across,
the slightest of movements become
amplified. It rings your head
like a heavy church bell. Any dreams
or carefully gathered thoughts
flutter off like frightened pigeons.
And you’re left like being horribly hung-over,
instead of planning your day
out, or week, or life, you are forced
to only plan on crawling out
of bed first, then getting to the kitchen,
and somehow filling up a glass of water.
