The blood on my gloves dries sticky

Like ancient fueds that refuse to heal

And instead ooze a red poison through bandages

And they are thick enough to cushion the wearer

But still the infection boils hot in my veins

And my fever runs unchecked

Tis but a passing thing, or so I once thought

But the hunger eats at me from the inside

And I morph and change until all that is left of me is shadow and shade

Bright eyes twinkling above a gauze mask

The creak and groan of muscle and flesh as it is cut out

There there all better now under the surgeon’s knives I go

But what they have left on me dries sticky

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