Aching softly, I exist as a black eye.
Yellowed, half healed and half hurting.
If you can peek past my swollen skin
and take me mangled in your hands
you need not lick my wounds,
but if you could look them in the eye unflinchingly
I could crawl onto my twisted wrists
and drag myself towards the edge of light,
my pale face shrouded by shadow before
unfolding in red gore.
You do not wince nor wish me other
and the dark is at once not made for monsters
but for growing back my limbs.
You are not my holy hymn
or my mother. You are you
and you are cover.
