I, moving from this skin of confinement,
The blood blossoms clean,
Covering myself in roses.

Draping myself,
Matching the crimson branches
Clinging to my swollen orbs.

Conscious not to fashion patchwork,
But the linen lines remained,
A disturbing off-white.

I spot you eyeing at my scars,
There is a price
For the disquiet of my heart.

The invisible man approached me,
The invisible man and his sight-fullness,
Tears streaming at the destitute man’s story.

Conditioned to view him as a vice,
I headed his cathartic advice.
“Why hurt yourself because others have hurt you?”