my body is splayed across an unknown bed

a blanket of skin upon sheets of destruction.

his hovers over me, a star—

a sun, setting me alight.

if my mother were here, she'd whisper about my love for fire—

point at the old burn on my left hand,

the new one on my right,

the forgotten one on my back,

the one that burns on in my heart.

"some wounds do not heal," she would say.

she is a lover of time,

an advocate for its power,

for its ability to take pain and make it bleed

make it clean

dress it in white and hand it back to the devil—

recycled. repurposed.

but still,

she would sit against that sacred armchair

with its fabric of old, its rich scent of money,

of a life i am barred from living,

and say,

"some wounds do not heal." she would pause. purse her lips. clean her teeth with a chicken bone. continue. "this is one of them."

my mother regifts pain like she does birthday presents;

and as he enters,

i realize that she has taught me the same.