Lara Coley



There is blood on the knife but you lick it clean. I notice you have no scars, that your
bruises heal before they become any color that's not beautiful. Mine are rotten
greens, appear like freckles in the sun, easy. You turn the blade over and over in
your hand, find a new way of looking at it every time you slide it out of my skin. No
one believes that you were kind, because, look at this mess you left. No one runs at a
knife more than once, do they? Your eyebrows dance at the question and the way
my fingers finger each scar, like a sleeping baby's hand, delicate and small as a milk
drop. You say, you hold your pain in reverence. 

                                                                                            I say, give me something else to hold. 


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