Wounded

I suck back the blood
and try to heal the wounds,
try to paste over the scars that
burn red, struggle pink and shudder
in the hot element of sinister design.
I long to touch the fog, taste
the sugar of the glass and peel the sticky shell
of the music off my pale skin, in hopes
of a small, round little glitter, glimmer and shine
of a greeting among familiar faces
I still wish
for a smile perched upon the wing of
lost movement in motion, blue heather
on the hilltops, gray ice within the
shallow hidden heart I carry clutched to me,
and black, faded ecstasy on the stairs.

I can only feel the red though.