Where does all the blood go?

Where does all the blood go?
Do you know?
Where does all of the blood from all of the killing go?

Every heart pumps blood.
Every man and woman, young and old.
Whether lean or fat, gay or straight,
Every martyr,
And every saint.

Rich or poor.
Black or white.
Disabled or not.
Documented or undocumented.
Every bigot and altruist, believer and non.

Every criminal and every victim,
Mentally ill or sane.
Every heart pumps blood just the same.

And so, I’d like to know.
Every person that we shoot, stab, blow up, bludgeon or beat,
Where does all of their blood go?

It has to go somewhere.
All things belong somewhere, and somewhere is where all things must go.
So where then, does all of the blood from all of the killing go?

Every chicken, cow, goat or sheep.
Every horse, pig, fish or deer.
Every bison, elephant, chimp or duck.
Indeed, every wolf, lion, tiger or bear,
Oh, my.
We breed and hunt and slaughter billions.
But, do you know?
Where does all of their blood go?

There has to be a place for it.
It was created, so there has to be a space for it.
But, where?
Where does it all go?

Blood, first warm and fast, then cool, sticky and thick, never stops moving.
It gushes, spurts, seeps, and oozes.
It runs, leaks, drips, and dribbles.
It rushes, flows, spreads and trickles.
It spills out of the body to continue its journey.
But where does it all go?

Does it creep up between our toes in the blades of grass on a summer lawn?
Or squish between our fingers in grains of sand at the beach?
Does it cling to our hair and to our skin as it travels down our body when we shower?
Does it fill our glass when we turn on the faucet?
Do we breathe it in when we inhale tiny grains of pollen and dust?

Yes. 
Yes it does.
Because that is where it goes, because that is where it must.

It soaks into the ground and races to the rivers.
It leaps into the air and grabs onto our clothes, only to be washed down the drain and flushed out to sea.
It dries and gets blown by the wind.
It mixes and mingles and blends all of the love, hate, joy and fear it’s collected. All the passion that created it and started it circulating, and all the death that evicts it and sends it searching.

Blood is blood, no matter where it begins.
It finds its way back beneath our skin.
It finds its way back inside of us.
Because that is where it belongs, because that is where it must.