When I am a corpse,

grey and gaunt on a metal table,

men will shake their heads and frown,

their hands high above their heads,

hurriedly hurling condemnation at the one man in particular,

who has my Blood on his hands.

When I am still alive,

fighting for each breath,

feverishly screaming,

I find the eyes of every man around me,

who will one day divorce themselves from the man who grabs at me,

pawing with impatient, impending poison,

and each of them looks away,

as if there is nothing that they can do.

There is no blood today,

but soon, it will cascade,

onto every averted eye and every raised, surrendering hand,

no matter how many times they say “No.”