Endure

I tell her
they always use
a butterfly needle.

I have small veins.

The first nurse says
she’ll get someone else.

But decides
to try anyway.

“It hurts,”
I tell her.

She keeps trying.

I start crying.

The second nurse arrives.

Again,
I tell her
they always use
a butterfly needle.

“I don’t like butterfly needles.”

As though my veins
were a matter of preference.

I want to run.

But I stay.

I endure.

Sobbing.

When it is over,
I apologise.

To her.

No one asks
if I am okay.

I leave
carrying three puncture wounds—
two in my arm,
one unseen.