Septic

Written August 19, 2007 (divorced seven months later)

I remember when I bore myself

open to you,

you turned away, ill.

I walk as a wound now,

and you are the salt.

Through the years you've stitched me up,

sick at the thought of me,

hoping someday I would heal over

and become smooth skin.

But I am messy, I am sore, I am

always falling down-skinning my knees,

never good enough.

There are so many who love this mess,

They can see me still through your bungled surgery.

They wouldn't turn away,

Even if I turned myself inside out.