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Feb 2018
A knife has ploughed into my wrist,
    tearing my veins like little blood-red strings.
A knife is maneuvering through my arteries
        slicing and dicing like a butcher.
The tip of the blade has survived
    the journey to the other side of my wrist
leaving a cavernous hole of flesh and mangled meat.
        The knife is not done, it wants more flesh.
Blood is spurting onto the floor,
    Morphing into a scenic red painting.
The blood looks like grape juice spilling out of
        my straw of an artery.

Did you think that the knife was the slaughterer?
    A hand is directing the knife.
A hand is training the knife to carve out
        my mashed wrist into smuttier mesh.
The fountain of blood spraying around the room
    is making me dizzy.
My ruby eyes follow the faint pathway of the hand
        controlling the piercing blade;
up the forearm, round the elbow, along the shoulder,
    till I can't look anymore. Why?
I'd be glaring into my own ruby red eyes,
        wouldn't I?
Written by
Michael Kariuki  18/M
(18/M)   
1.9k
   Joy Onyango and Seema
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