He doesn’t understand my love-hate relationship with blood.
“How can you be obsessed with it and be scared of it at the same time?”
It’s quite simple, I write about blood because it means something deeper. Because no matter what the Slytherins believe, blood is always pure. Because red is passion, and anger and me. Because blood is iron and metal and life. And because according to Sylvia, “The blood jet is poetry/There’s no stopping it.”
Why then did I become woozy when I saw the pool of blood the hunted birds had left on the floor? Why did I become conscious of the cut on my arm only when I saw the blood? Why, for me, was pain related only and only to the spilling of blood?
How do I explain to him that this apparent confusion that my mind faces when it comes to blood is the very reason I am obsessed with it?