In the morning
We put band-aids on the wounds we inflicted.
Wrap our bodies in fresh cotton gauze
That we will stain with regrets and bad memories.
Mother’s kiss on every scrape,
And one more for the forehead.
“Hold me,” you beg,
Then flinch when my fingertips meet your skin.
It’s going to take some time for us to heal.
Our words cut like daggers
In the night.