We Do Not Die

"We all bleed the same." The words drip off my tongue like honey, the lie spreading over the earth, people repeating them as though they mean something. Don't they know that it means nothing to bleed? It means nothing to say we all bleed the same.

We all bleed the same.

But he bleeds more than me, ruby crystals spilling onto the grey sidewalk, the smell of it filling the air, and I can't watch anymore.

She doesn't bleed either, she films it with her phone, sharing it with her friends and I scream at her to help.

Still he bleeds, and there is too much of it.

Whirling sirens, flashing red and blue, a garish sight, and still the blood spills over my fingers, dripping onto my jeans.

We all bleed the same, but we do not die the same.