the cycle

the cycle the skin underneath scabby knees marred by experience or pavement the new skin it carries hope and maybe if the largest organ had a conscience stretched thin as it does over collarbones it would have worried, too, that this time healing won’t happen doomed to this dry existence of caked blood and germs as if it forgot, too that every other time the ivory underneath spoke of renewal little creases like laugh lines virgin skin that seems to have forgotten how bad it was four days ago