I almost bled to death at the age of eight,
in my own bed, with sheets pulled to my neck.
My nose flowed like a faucet in secret,
until the covers became a crimson cocoon.
I carried on sleeping, dreaming of football
while my head let forth a waterfall.
I woke up weaker in the morning, half-dead,
depleted as I rose on stiff arms to see red.
Blood-bed pale in the early morning light
which crept in between the slits in the curtains.
It illuminated sheets coated in crusted blood,
cracking into canyons as I stirred slowly.
My emptied veins tried in vain to propel the frame
away from that first glimpse of death at an early age.
Extricated itself from the bed which felt a grave,
scared, telling itself to be brave, to stay awake.
Chichester, March 2017