There’s a velvet purple stain rippling where I once had a bruise made by cane sized fingers.
A deep red touch so heavy it smothered
And I only whispered half heartedly to you
About that dark thing I felt growing in knowing
When I was battled by spirits
And I wish I could have explained to you how broken it is
How disappointed I am
That I did not receive the worst
My bra straps never quivered
That my cane tinted stories aren’t the real darkness
Or deserving of
But that the great awful happened to others
Scissor stories
Sharpened by the passing of time and word
And that whiff of something indecent
I had enough imagination to see just the dark figure of it
As something awful
Just that cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold sick knowing
The dark giant
With cane fingers
With scissor eyes
Was nearer my mother.
And I’d never know the whole flesh of it.
