they tell me to put a band-aid over it
but I've long been accustomed to *******
the blood from its source, pain into stomach,
I stomach the pain

byproducts of observation, disgust and fear
meted out like a rush of an open wound
but I pay no mind, I have my own tears to deal with
and I patch it up and sew my hairs into knots
braided into false closure, just to stop the loss

but nothing I do can stop the surge,
in every breath I lose the will
with no knot nor braid, I've neither fought nor prayed,
still the blood keeps flowing, and I just keep swallowing

skin like plaster like plaster to skin,
a growing clot can only be a dam so strong
the iron lungs heave, and I exhale a gale of rust
but I shall not cease moving, no matter how much blood I've lost