Exit Wounds
Blood is dripping to the floor
in exit wounds, and raw
she’s heading for the door,
maybe just a cut drawn score,
even as cold hand slipped glove,
she never will beg for love,
it's a scratch, only little sorrow
but enough, ask about it tomorrow,
you might find them alone
and grave, nursing phones,
like that split you felt in your sole;
worked out once too many times,
pushed it; the muscle snapped
elastic whipped back and crack,
flicked stinging and backlashed
bat lash sparks in her eyes flashed,
like coming on amber through fog
brief blinking, rear viewed, departed
in morse code, but save our souls,
like sending out the rescue dogs
sensing scent masking acid sweat,
too soon to remember to forget
us yet, and in the morning, regrets,
faces plastered and set on set.
Oh, true, you could stop her
with firm words, words sad,
words is only ever all we had,
hand wave away and be ever glad,
but these exit wounds remain,
and on true hearts leave true stain.
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