Thursday, 10 February 2011


The Softest Spot beats bilinear,
directions of selfishness and arrogance.
I pull your hand out of my wound,
blood escapes and I watch coldly,
you talk and paste your hand to my stomach,
I don't talk and I keep your hand there,
the hole above pulsates with lost blood,
heart shrinks, bones reform, skin grafts
across the empty lungs leaving a scar,
which I stroke, realising your hand has gone.

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