Instruments of War •Poetry•

b r u i s e d

The bruises on your skin
I trace with ardent fingers
I dance along the blue flesh, leaving goosebumps by its wake
I sometimes hold and press down on the clotted skin

Then draw half crescents around the wound
kissing the new scratch as blood surrounds my lips
the taste of your flesh lingering on my teeth
And when I study your expression with disdainful eyes and a crooked smile
You tell me its only right,

Otherwise its an unfair war
For the massacre you had once left behind