Carving

I carve myself another line, bleed myself another word.

Put myself upon the page, every moment for all the age.

I carve my flesh another line, another drop of ink.

Blood works well when the well is empty

And I have enough to let my story drink.

So I carve myself again and again, thinking I’m bled dry.

Yet I live, I live, even as I wish to die.

So yet again, I carve myself another line, another drop of ink.

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