Wounds

Sometimes in the shower,

when my eyes are closed,

your words sneak up

and hold me hostage

like a hitchcock-ian thriller.

My eyes scramble open

and Death recedes

leaving behind a bitter shadow

around my throat,

as if the knife already scraped my skin

and drew tiny beads of blood.

Layers of wrapping come undone

each bandage soaked through

the wounds underneath gangrenous.

I cover the stench

with perfumes and smiles.