On the skin of your left arm
Between your wrist and elbow
Is a place where a needle struck.
Where you envisaged pain,
But artwork first.
A charcoal rose
Of fallen beauty and the elegance
Of dirt rubbed into a wound.
Bleeding through your claim
To being human.
You roll up the sleeve
Of every jumper you wear.
Turn up the cuffs of your t-shirts
And share a smile with me,
Without meeting my eye.
But that rose on your arm
Is never so shy. It stares
Into empty spaces
That you pound your feet in to,
Trembling alive with a strange anger.
I press my wrist to yours
And I suffer the sting of your thorns
Beneath the petals of the rose.
Soft skin.
Mine is your hand to be calm in.
