Bleed

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

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s