theshookfoil:

Under a full moon, you pick poppies and press

them into notebooks. I fear this act—rushing

death in hopes of suspending the glories of life.

I have never played god. Stung by a bee only once,

I remedied the wound with baking soda

and a tight wrap. Hospitals and sharpness

scare me. I prefer the softness of words like tonic,

my last hold on a plainer world. I watch you

from a distance, most days. Now you press

lips to arm, kissing the purple and yellow

and sickly green. There is something strange

in the way you treasure these bruises.

I see no romance in pain, anymore. Now you

catch my eye and disappear into your

worn flannel sleeves. You know why I stare.

I am afflicted in my own way, but quieter,

with the peace of the almost-drowned.