scars

she gave me the eyes,

undid the buttons of her blouse,

whispered, "fix me."

so I kissed her lips and agreed.

she spread her thighs

and I ignored her hands in favor of her legs

but God, I remember them now.

I cradled her like she was something soft

and all the while she ripped into my heart.

she rocked against me:

"deeper" and pulled me in.

I didn't notice that she'd cut me open

until she'd torn me apart.

my medication sings her name.

suede chairs and prescription pads,

but it's always the same.

I see her eyes in a glass of merlot,

hear her laugh in a half dozen shots.

is this how wounds are supposed to feel?

I lick and scratch and tear at myself,

hoping for the follow-up.

doesn't the surgeon come to check if the patient

is healing?

scar tissue is a far off dream.

my chest still holds the shape of her,

and I'm screaming.

"fix me."