First Degree             

You stabbed me
with the deadened end
of a machete;
pierced through brittle,
marrow-filled bones
and left the blade inside
to rot.
Blood flowed like silk
down the side of my ribs
and stained a dry, scarlet scarf
around my thigh.

And then you left.

Alone, I pulled the blade
from out my guts,
swabbed clean the chunks of blood
and found a note
carved into its handle.
It said, Scar tissue’s stronger than skin.
Or something similar to that.
You were no poet,
but you told me more
about Reality
than any celebrated book
or scripture.

It took four months
to finally heal,
after my hands grew numb
from picking its scabs,
and they say there’s still
a puncture in my heart
and will never quite work right.

But I remember your last words
just before you shut the screen door.
You said, I love you.
Those three, lazy words 
we’d die for,
or maybe kill.
But I didn’t know what you’d meant;
not until I felt the rigid mountain scar 
across my chest, 
and read the blade’s handle
one last time.