The cuts you posses upon your
sleeve
travel from upper arm to wrist
like a road trip to Alaska;
you took back roads.
I see it in your deep red smiles,
how you yearn to feel
my kiss around your machinery
And their cruel bumps
run across your arm
like paper made with
empty air holes.
And I need you to know
that I'll use your innocence
to speak to you about how
(one day) you'll be fine