My collar lies open, exposing the neon blue spirals that glint down my breastbone. It’s hot, too hot for my coveralls to stay zipped tight.
A woman passes, hissing to her rigid husband as if I’ve personally insulted her. I flick my tongue and arch a taunting brow, silently pleased when she gasps and pulls him away.
My euphoria fades, and I slump against the wall. When will they stop pretending I’m no more than an abstract idea, something dreamed, feared, not real.
I deserve to be here, just as much as those blood bags do. I’m alive too.