Communication 64

I am Trauma 

I am undeserving

I am scraps of systematic residue

on the underbelly of the afternoon,

I scratched my name in you

I have nothing to save

septic stitches entwined

through the scathing wound

she’s tormented 

she’s bruised

these hands, to mop her weeping,

I am her plaster to shield the bleeding,

in her crevices, 

retaliation’s hiding,

I encapsulate her tissue dying

she can only conjure repair in sleeping 

I am Trauma