Trauma

Published in The Pigeon Parade Quarterly: Bleed

I am done, then undone;
Healed, then opened.

Each interaction like shears
Cutting fresh stitches from the time before.
I see you and my body prepares for hurt.
You are visceral.

I try to keep it covered
I try to keep it in.
The physician reminds me, casually,
That sometimes people bleed.

But my flesh invites judgment
My fluid, scorn.
With each denial of responsibility,
You summon platelets to the surface.

Claim your role in my pain
So I can, finally, scar.
Trade sharp knives for gauze,
Or lose me forever.