What part of me is bleeding?

What part of me is bleeding?

Is it my heart, beating red and still pushing blood to my brain as it struggles to keep up with an aging, increasingly heavy strain.

Is it my hair, as the color leaves strand by strand abandoning the thin grey bits to join some more youthful lass.

Perhaps it is my feet, burdened by years of baby carrying, milk getting, chuckle walking.

My womanhood may weep blood of a healthier kind as I am reminded of those children and more that will never be, babies I won't forward into life because there has to be a stopping, a moving into the next stage.

Nay, it is my wisdom which twists away with my never-good-memory, this I am supposed to gain but where is it going as fast as I gain it?

Is it my knees, pudgy to the end, where each step is pulled forward and each step ends.

My lungs, my liver, my intestines?

What part of me is bleeding?

But that part unseen, unfelt, unhanded, my years.