Dear Syringe

 

Dear Syringe,

I don't mean to get butterflies whenever I see you.

Please understand what happened that night in ninety-eight.

It wasn't anyone's fault, 

But in the end I perceived you as an instrument of torture rather than healing.

I was but a year old, just going on two.

As we were leaving the movie store, Daddy told me to wait.

Unwittingly I picked a bad spot to halt.

The corner of the door scraped the top of my foot as it closed and immediately I was bleeding.

 

In the car to the E.R. Daddy held my hand as I cried.

The car zoomed through several nighttime glitches.

When we got to the hospital, I was wrapped like a taco so I couldn't fight.

My foot must've been cut open pretty wide,

Because it needed stitches.

When you were about to numb my foot, you gave me a terrible fright.

 

You were sharp, so I knew you would hurt, but I could do nothing I was wrapped so tightly. 

According to my parents, my face became like a mercury thermometer as I screamed,

Becoming redder and redder as the decibels increased.

My foot was healed thanks to your assistance, but after that experience I never again took you lightly. 

You were my phobia, my worst enemy, the most ungodly medical instrument any doctor had ever dreamed.

Even though you'd saved billions since then, that didn't reassure me in the least.

 

Then, one day, on the fourteenth anniversary of the September 11th attacks, a blood drive took place at my school.

Not going to lie, I hesitated; I was scared.

They were offering some t-shirts that looked super cool.

I wanted one, so I would have to at least try. In the end, I dared. 

 

My finger was pricked to check my iron level (naturally I cringed).

I was considered able to donate,

So I knew that I’d soon meet you, Syringe,

And my heart raced while I had to wait.

 

It was difficult for me to relax as you neared me.

The phlebotomist had me look away as you speared me.

A loud growl escaped my throat as I squeezed the plush heart I'd been given.

The worst part was soon over, and the donation earned me some yummy snacks and that awesome shirt for which I'd originally striven.

In the following weeks, I learned that I'm universal (So I shouldn't be so negative),

Also, since I want to become a dental hygiene professional, towards you I shouldn't be so sensitive.

 

I'm not as afraid of you as I used to be, and I know lives are on the line every day (lives that I could save with you collecting my blood).

So even though your prick in my vein still hurts me, I am strong

(for I acknowledge that you are, in fact, a tool for common good).

All in all, I think you and are going to get along.

 

Sincerely,

Eden Joyce 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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