Letitia Trent
THE WOUND AND I
The cold war between
the wound and I was
at an end. I agreed
not to publicly insult
it or tell him
about inky spills in
dark green carpet.
It agreed to be dressed
in ten little x's, to be
snapped shut clean as a
guillotine while I tore
the corners of the
hospital bed, knuckles
white as potato meat.
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