markbousfield

The blemishes are raised like a bruise,
as a pulse of terror in the wrists of the weak
we lay close together as kindred spirits,
like siamese twins welcomed into death in unison,
This the crux I use to fall further and farther
into love and all that it beholds,
it is the flicker of guilt,
the nuance of menace
and the creeping self doubt that I use to cut my heart,
as the wound opens tissue fills the gaps,
it heals leaving me with more heart than I ever had before,
more capacity to love,
more space to hurt,
so I welcome this pain,
it will only make me more human.