She scraps and squawks and tends your bruises,

You wash your face in a handmade baisin.

These bouts and fights to which you're inure

Do nothing to help your desire to assoil

Your sins, and though she believes you sinless

The reflection in the mirror makes you nauseous. 

Toothpaste doesn't hide the saline

Taste of blood when she kisses your sore

Lips. And she says "I hate the brine

Between us - you're not alone

But I'll no longer be your nurse."


The End

68 comments about this poem Feed