As a child, I wonder why I made such a big deal of blood, and now, why it doesn’t phase me. It’s just blood. Just red water. Just juice. The first synonym for blood to pop up on thesaurus.com is juice. And that must mean Dracula wrote the list, his lust for blood creating a kaleidoscope of twisted beauty. To a serial killer, are we all just crimson Capri-Suns, ready to be stabbed, our bodies pouches packed with juice? Funnily enough, dictionary.com lists the definition of juice as liquid squeezed from fruit, plant. Redefinition drips from the lips of the dictionary—we are no more than someone to be pulverized, stringy tendons and rubbery skin left behind as pulp tumbling inside a cloudy red beverage that could easily be mistaken for tomato or cranberry juice. And now I’m scared of what was in that weird, crimson punch at that holiday party—It had an off texture that I’d assumed was pineapple chunks. Was that—? In my teeth—? It was probably just juice… In case you were wondering, the first synonym for juice on thesaurus.com is alcohol: intoxicating, flammable liquid. And I wonder if my relatives told themselves what they treasured was juice. What flowed through their veins was juice. What they drank was probably just juice. Through a kaleidoscope, suffering can become healing, if we twist this pain just enough, the scars in the stones from which we’re cut will glisten. If I cherish these gems enough… This dread shoots through my veins—turns over and over again like gemstones, like pulp: There is just one synonym of separation between blood and alcohol. One synonym of separation between life and repetition. One stir, one rotation of the kaleidoscope, one cut. I pray the reflection is beautiful.