Written in my wounds

For l am poor,
words being only
jewels l posses;
only clothes l wear.

I write in woe like
a slave spinning
wool with a tool.

Laid in my wound
was of love,
a letter lettered
with the shapes
of bruises you
nurtured in me.

One letter left for
me to drown
myself in.

So madder, stranger
and darker after
the day you etched
your daggers in
my healing bruises.