Sinew by sinew, you stitch me under your skin.

Where I end and you begin is determined by your seam ripper, a tool you never seem to want to use.

And while you burry me deep inside you,

I carry you in plain sight, on my kneecaps, in brown and purple bruises.

In the un-dismissable dull ache that reminds me of you.

I may have not been built to kneel,

but maybe I can withstand your bend.