it is very very hard to bleed upon a page because you
must be willing to apply the knife to your own skin
with the right amount of force a pressing which neither
gores nor scratches but slices clean through so anyone
who desires to peek can see just what is in there clear as
bone and cut as sinew and then truth has to ooze up in these
patterned little drops to represent what made you write this
truth in the first place a truth that whirs through you
as you lie in your own skin on your bed in the cool of darkness
and reconcile the world to the rhythm of your beating beating
heart
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