Faux Politico

The hero hangs there bleeding.
The room is dim, a light bulb flickers.
His hands are bound with razor wire.
He wishes they'd fall off.
His toes are already gone.
They didn't fall.
They were harvested.

Two chatting lovebirds enter.
Each draws a knife.
Each takes a slice.
One cuts left, the other cuts right.
There are hundreds of lacerations.
It's been going on for days.
None seem to show remorse.
Neither of these two hesitate.
They wipe their blades, sheath them.
Their conversation takes them to the hall.
The hero groans pathetically.
Dark blood oozes down his ribcage.
Mercy died with God.

Words he thought he'd never fear:
"It's time for your transfusion."
Three medics wheel the IVs in.
Veins are stabbed haphazardly.
The art of needling's lost.
They pump him with more fluids.
It seeps from spots he's taken steel.
It seeps from everywhere.

A drain below catches crimson rivulets.
The tile floor is slick.
One of his prodders almost slips, curses.
When they're gone the sprinkler opens.
It washes down the red.
The grout lines are a scarlet grid.
The tile's white again.

There is Freedom in the plumbing.
There are Rights in jars on shelves.
There are those who'd let the strangers cut.
I'd rather arm myself.