Bright neon across pale skin, adhesive sticking
too close to the wound. The comfort was gone.
I was scared to look.
When layers peeled away, what would remain?
Would puss fill the wound? Would I see bone?
I was scared to look.
The skin underneath wilted and withered
like snow caressing my bare feet as I scurried.
I was scared to look.
The neon pulled away, layer by layer, not wanting to be seen
skin revealed itself. The wound lay naked for all to see
I was scared.
YOU ARE READING
Faces of Autonomy: A Poetry Collection
Poetry"The bones break, building upon one another-each vertebrae snapping, stacking, until my limbs reach the highest shelves." -From Chameleon. TW: Abuse, Grief, Loss, Violence. Poetry was never a genre I thought I would get into. I read very little po...
