Stitches
Jagged
ragged–
held together
in a staggered
red line.
Black
stark
in my pale
shadowed places.
Maybe I would heal
if I could feel
the sun.
But the
burn-pain-itch
is constant
and my muscles
lock tight.
My son wants me.
I would rather
bleed
than see sad,
reaching
disappointment
in his eyes.