It’s rare that we heed the signs;
Your eyes open wide with the shock locked look before,
the gurgle up whimper after,
noticing your burgundy blood congealing
next to each layer of skin, by the bone,
Until, you stand up wincing, and the blood is,
You’re gasping for air, choking your own incoherent words before,
that tourniquet terror twists your thought process, after
isolating the pain. And, you focus;
that BAND-AID, in the cabinet, can’t fix what needles and stitches mend.
She however, will never go to the emergency room.
She’s conveniently prone to those accidental words,
that precision knife thrown anger
that lands clean and close before,
Whoops! She moves, and is severed
leaving a ghost appendage that still feels, what was.
Stowed away for her, are needling BAND-AID apologies
with scar kissed traces of Frankenstein stitches
on her forehead, that will never heal, after