Haemophelia

In the chasmal
corridors of her psyche,
A shade of a slur knocked
Her soul, gouged,
And fled. 

It was only a scratch, 
poor princess, a scratch!
But still she fears
She'll end up dead.

She whimpers as waves
Of mulberry malaise 
Her blue girl bed sheets 
Incarnadine.

Scared and confused,
(she's so easily bruised…)
Waiting for someone
To intervene.

Feeling red raw as liver
And hands all aquiver,
She waits for 
Her mind to congeal.

Weaker than water,
This nobody daughter
Must gauze up 
Her heart just to feel--

To balance herself,
A leech jar on a shelf.
Her thoughts over-
Flow, bite, and writhe

Histrionic haemorrhage
For when she can't
Help but dredge 
Up megrims she needn't revive.

From birth, the girl's skin 
Has been papery thin,
And it thickens no more 
Than her blood.

Filled with despair and
Drowned in liquid air,
See, the poor girl's own heart
Caused the flood.

The End

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