Goddess, the wounds of your words haven’t quite healed.
Like a batch of seasoned butchers , they had flayed my days quite skillfully;
I have come to hate the cuticles that newly sprouted on them
Under your studiedly tender nursing.
I would prefer the seething unskinned day
to this meek new one you’ve graced me with.
In the mopped tidy room, on the table, white papers and an ink-drunk pen; a scrupled
shelf, a sparse chair and a wooden cot; a memory-snuffed
ashtray; four whitewash-smelling undecorated walls.
Like it was before you.