in the aftermath,

my skin raw

rubbed in chafe

barrier broken down

still more scrubbing

with gritty sandpaper

until I was red.


in the healing,

ready to grow new,

I could have

sprouted spikes

from my fingertips.

my pet

would leave similar


of my receipt.

or scraping spiny palms –

my touch of others

shredding souls –

special point in dislike.


I chose not.

instead allowing

those weeping wounds

to heal in fur,

soft merino mitten

to stroke those in meet,

even those disapproving,

a gentle hand of help.

in hope to ease

those inner melancholy melodies

to the sweet sound

of silence.


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