I'd seen it before, known its colors:
I'd seen it ooze and spray.
Seen it pooled, leaking, splattered.
Seen it blotted into tissues, crusted at the tops of sweaty gym socks, soaked through bandages.
I'd seen it in the movies.
Seen vampires drink it, and werewolves splash it.
Comically thick, the wrong kind of red, covering walls and floors.
I'd seen gangsters shoot it out of each other, and soldiers earn their stripes with it.
I'd seen it forcibly pulled out into syringes, and gently dripped back in from hanging bags.
I'd seen surgeons put their hands in it, snap off gloves covered in it.
I'd seen it in discarded pads and tampons in lover's trash bins.
Seen it in the sheets on the very same nights.
It used to scare me, as a kid.
But then I grew up.
But I'd never seen it floating in the toilet bowl.
Now it's there every time I stand up.
And I'm scared again.