I bleed through my fingertips.
I am a poet:
I stay awake, by no choice of mine, and I bleed onto the keyboard and into the world.
A tribute, if you will, to the wars within.
I am a musician:
I sneak into the woods, so my family cannot here, and I bleed on the strings of my black, battered guitar, and the music is heard by no-one.
I am a scientist:
I stay at the school, late into the night, to type one last line of code, or ***** in one last bolt. The whir of the motors is a release. Here, control is more than an illusion.
I am a person:
And I am full of so much blood.
Sometimes, it wells up in my heart until it is ripe to burst,
And sometimes it is as empty as poetry, or music, or beauty.
