Yet a sweet pain, stitched and mended seams of heart

where the rips began. There you touch

now, delicate fingered, clean scrubbed,

where you tore and prodded

before: sharp, with cruel and reckless abandon,

that blood vein that would weaken me most, drop me

to my knees, shoulders sagging, scooped

empty of pulp. You plug that vein shut

with the soft pad of your thumb,

distracting me with your winning smile.

Hurt still? you start to ask, trying hard,

chastised with the knowledge of heedless wrong,

but the fear of reply puts a fist to your mouth.

You want to know without asking,

without suffering the whip

of words, their bloody slash,

drip, and splatter

on your neatly polished floor.

Messes disturb you.

I hand you the mop;

I’ll hold the bucket.

We need the words, the slash exposing raw pink

flesh to bandages, precision stitches pulled taut,

cut places stronger now than uncut.