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


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