Leech Jar

She sees it, just a glimpse The leech jar, her medicine In bed, flat, tired, breathless She wants it, all of it More than the suggested dose And then she wonders, ponders If one can overdose on leeches Shuddering, it doesn't matter She clutches the sides of her Tomb, her bed in a hospice Knuckles already white She only wants to see them Grow darker, her skin return To its natural state, She absolutely loathes This sickly pale tone She'd rather be dead, Or strangled, blue is pretty Her mind refocuses as it draws Near, she sees more clearly The doctor, the man with knives Administers the remedy, not the cure Her head lolls back, she is content Red is by far her favourite colour