Bloom, Pain!

Bleeding knuckles, 

After I punched the wall, 

The red makes roses

Bloom in the concrete. 
A burnt lip, 

Starts to blister, 

From too much concentration, 

A constant, hanging, quiver, 

Of white and terminal stick. 
I have ravines in my heart, 

Where your fingers touched me, 

The claws that crept, 

Slow as a glacier, 

But deep and with meaning, 

An intention unfathomable, 

Only sure in certain moods, 

On certain times, 

In particular seasons.

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