☆☆☆☆Milkwhite crystals: the wound on my back ☆☆☆☆

Feels like glass shards

Milk-white crystals sharp

Stabbing into the soft meat of my heart

Into its unnassuming pulp of tissue

Its crystalisations of defensless blood

Blood that you slowly sucked and drawed

Trough no plaster patches and no pat on the shoulder after

The fall of the bike, or the banging on the door

I feel and will feel forever the wounds carved into the heart of a child

A pulsing wound that will continue to grow, get infected

every day, all the time, until the day i die

Even with you gone, there will be the (sharp) milkwhite crystal-shards that I could silently try to pick out

but you know how these things are

Meat is thick (and splinters grow thin(ly in))

And I will carry this wound on my back, like a wet cloth, a string of stones, a symbol of time

Like you have carried a wound on your ribs, and your mouth from your mothers mother and her mothers mother 

On and on and on

Like a sword through time

Like a needle through the bodies waiting in line, like a queue

And I will carry it too, for you have given it to me

Wherther you knew it or not, wherther you knew you were hurting or not

And it makes me neauseus how I might see another that I love, grow into such a life

I hope with all the fires in my heart, 

bowing to the sparkling orange sun/sparkling orange like the sun

You will not have to feel it all

On my knees to the stars

I know at least with me, where I can move and see (move my head and my hands up my ribs and feel where my heart is there is that sharp point under the skin like a silver knife) and where there is a point moving from my own chest into time

I will cover it with cotton and pillow and clay

And if I ever had a daughter

I would make sure her back was washed and whole and soft and washed