Bloodletting

Every inch of my body is covered 
in oozing sores and open wounds. 
Every breath I breathe is corrupted
by some godforsaken plague. I see 
the bodies as they bounce along 
the cobblestones in wooden carts 
and I'm terrified of joining their 
animate carrion for tea and cake.
        
I've conversed with the footman. He 
is nothing short of sickly unpleasant. 
He jumped on top of me and wanted 
to taste me and begged me to join him 
in his khaki pants and when I refused 
and pushed him away, he spat upon 
my chest, his acidic, red saliva burning
into me and seeping deep inside of me.
       
He cursed me with this unknown disease
that envelops me like a Pompeiian whore
and showers me with volcanic ash that
sneaks into any crevice or pore it sees fit
as if to impregnate me with its feverish
spawn. My lunacy has journeyed from
my head to my groin and back again
and heatedly refuses to release its grip.

There has been no suppressant found,
no cure discovered, but I am very sure 
that I will not willingly succumb. That 
is why I have come to you. I want you
to open my veins for me, employing
any tool you see fit to rip the fibers apart 
and release the humours, fluids which 
course through me as if to outrun me.

Drain out every liquid ounce contained
within my being. With your aid, it'll all
be ok. If I slice a vein, it'll all be ok, and 
this evil that I have sopped up will run
off and flit away, never to be heard of
again. A boy like you could play saviour 
to a boy like me, make him forget all 
about his sickness, and last forever.





  


    

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