Durability and thickness,

This is the quick flesh of an arm.

It's mutilated by sight and by touch

by Words

Quite mutilated indeed.

Dripping red,

It rushes like a river, or drips like a stream

depending on the soul it's reaping.

A hospital for souls is what she needs

what they all need

Loving care and soft touches,

Patches and band-aids

Soft fingers to contradict her own heavy, hurtful hand.

To ebb the flow of the red,

and the dark

The black-red pitch.

It needs to be scrubbed

Some lye and scouring with a toothed comb

Not a sterling silver piece of metal.

But she won't let it,

Because with the pitch, she fell in love.