Poem/ Diary Of A Haemophile
They sense the joy in my sad eyes…
Sometimes I think that I love the blood
As it trickles, tickling my dead nerves
On their way down into this grave pit.
This pained feeling I can’t do without,
Feeling alive by my draining to death,
Choosing by myself all of my torturers,
Because choice still curses us with love.
I find myself by the softer fires of hell,
A sheer comfort is in Its cold embrace
As the flames lap at my sores and hurt,
Freezing them numb for a time.
The flight of the sentimental moth
From dying embers to the next inferno,
Each one an ender for the previous hell,
Each one my potential permanent end.
Sometimes I feel I like the slavery.
Contorting to everyone else’s desires.
Spasming from bladed whips swung
From strange hands at the end of my arm.
Screaming my blood curling wails,
Hushing my heart stopping breaths.
I’m told love is sacrifice, so I’m content
As the sacrificial pyres burn my bones.
Dying, with a brilliant smile on my face,
Shedding the errs of my mortal heart.
And if I resurrect again, then next time
I’ll find a sharper scythe or guillotine,
Because this rush that speeds my beats,
This vulnerability that slows my pulse,
This very bleeding love, proves I’m alive.
So I sense the sadness in their bright eyes.
(By Nigel Neil Miles Amable, 2016).
