I turned my head in a feeble attempt to ignore the bleeding pen.

Tourniquets save the lives of young boys: sons, disguised as soldiers, and even men.

I overlooked the hemorrhage, and waved doctors away.

With every drop of crimson blood and every drop of onyx ink,

The bathtub drain drains the tub and soon it will be empty.

The noises will be gone; no echoes will remain, perhaps if you’re lucky, they may, just may, remember your name.

I let myself bleed out and I allow myself to purge.

Like the bile of a drunken man nauseous in an alleyway,

Cluttered, confused, and clammy, word vomit constitutes my poetry and makes my name, my name.