Blood

It's all in your blood.
Everything you do in life won't mean a drop, not compared to the meat-slop flowing through you.
Your blood is your life, your blood defines you. Without it you are nothing, and with it?
You're heritage.
You're composition.
You're parts glued into a whole?
Is that it?
Is that all there is?
Your actions won't matter, not when someone can just define you by principle only made visible because a couple people made your blood in the first place.
Is that it?
Hold the stars in your hands.
Kiss the moon good night and sew together galaxies with gossamer dreams, it won't matter.
You'll be: man. Woman. Gay. Straight. Black. White. Rich. Poor. Human. Monster. Cultured. Savaged. Any of a thousand thousand adjectives and nouns that describe you in the most meager way possible, and you'll be held to judgement for every bloody one of them.
Is that it?
'cause if it is, that's bullshit.
If it is, then the venom in my veins, the poisonous bile that makes my blood black as tar, might just be a step in the right fucking direction.