I swing on the scratches–
red twigs splintering your back.
Two erasure poems
scar your chest.
You sweat glittery, uneven tattoos
mosh-pitting your thighs.
Your eyes, a car door slam
during traffic, hitchhiking off road.
When we kiss, I taste a dungeon
of scars– handcuffed and bleeding
a baptismal cut-up.
Aimee Herman 