ultimately,
as i bleed,
the red isn't color, it's stain.
push down on the wound
to exercise the pain,
let it trickle to my elbow,
fight the urge to taste.
the wrist fallls limp,
dangling, dripping,
the smell of iron overwhelms,
more nauseous from the life
as it drains and flavors the meat
of the stew.
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