Cicatrix

By Taylor Herald

Blood the same brews thick wire around the masses of men;

Extraction will prove that I am his.

Parallel only by a rhythm,

My heart did not drip with his likeness but it burned for his affection.

Red-stained cotton is a souvenir to be treasured;

A relic of two cuts done by one touch.    

Now I see him in my bruises.

His reflection in the purple smudge gives me comfort.