The Closing Tear

Given how ugly the wound can be,
it's a miracle you ever
love yourself again.

Given what trauma feels like,
I don't blame you for
wishing it away,
selfishly.

You didn't open it,
didn't do this to yourself,
how could you know
how to close it?

That exposed nerve
causes you to twitch
and shudder
with each quantum breeze.

That brushing-by
breaches any security
you thought
you had rebuilt.

But without your will
and without your work
the machines inside you
soldier on.

You can feed them shit
or gold,
but they will turn to the sun
and work.

Soon you can run a finger
over a bump, once a gash,
and blood flows sleekly beneath,
instead of free.

And while it doesn't match,
and is too soft,
too sensitive,
not quite you - 

is there anything so perfect,
anything that means "hope"
quite so much
as fresh, pink, skin?