If anything, I am more aware of each heartbeat;
erratic pumping like the crush of acorns
beneath bare feet–breathe in, bleed out–
Yes, it hurts.
When it snows, I become the lady in red,
dragging my lace shawl. It is no longer fun
when the cold burns my hands–when nothing
singes as it should
and wounds
cannot be cauterized.
08/30/11
Notes:
This poem is a sequel (of sorts) to Nightmare.