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| Pencil, biro pen and oils |
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| Close-up shot |
In my heart and writing hand, until
I'm sick, sour-sweet, crushed
Underneath the stitches I didn't need - it's not a wound
It's what I need to breathe
Because
I am done with feeling guilty
I don't need sutures.
My body remembers
Because seeds were planted in my skin that day
And it took them this long to germinate
My fallow wounds were built
For beauty and honesty
My fertile skin is soil for better things
My lips were made to sing."
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