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."