The tourniquet
That staunches the onslaught
Of thoughts is precarious;
Sometimes running it's course
And becoming so soiled
That things leak through the cracks.
Those days are difficult
Two hands and a will of steel
Mean nothing...
He slips out and around my fingers
Staining everything with bright
Poignant memories of another time.
My hands, on occasion, are enough
And I'm all I need
Holding the edges tight
Teeth gritted, waiting for the sides to knit
Into something strong and new.
When the tourniquet is fresh though
I remember why I need it so much
Remember the softness of cloth again my
Bruised flesh and sign in the heady relief
He offers.
I don'twantdon'tneed everything hiding behind this flesh
Seeping out constantly