I orient myself towards some pain
and look upon it, and its source, with love.
Trace how it's rooted in the forces of
repulsion and adhesion. Feel the strain
of separated things to join once more:
the wrinkled edges of a healing cut.
My answer when you're wrong about me: "but
you're wrong about me" chafes me till I'm sore,
until I stitch the separated sides
together--roughly, bloody. Good enough
to foil the flies that fresh red blood attracts.
What's torn apart is hurt, but pain abides
in distance, searing every edge that's rough
till it fits smooth as evidence fits facts.